


night shift

by cherrybirds



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, akaashi 'i hate my job' keiji, it's .........sohft, like a moderate burn, perhaps too soft, so much pining, they didn't go to high school together! met in uni, yearning level 100 tbh, you can fit SO MUCH LOVE in these mfs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24615712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrybirds/pseuds/cherrybirds
Summary: Akaashi tends not to connect with other people often. He can be friends, he can laugh, he can joke. But real moments of raw human connection are few and far between. But it’s different, with Bokuto. It feels as though they just come together naturally. Like two notes in a chorus, or like orange comes next to red on the rainbow. It’s just how it goes, how it always has gone, how it always will go.(In which Akaashi Keiji is a sad uni student with a shit job, but maybe it'll be okay if Bokuto just keeps smiling at him.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 29
Kudos: 210





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> QUICK PSA HI!!! it would mean a LOT if you could consider spending 5 seconds signing some of the petitions and reading the info at this link!! : https://blmsites.carrd.co/ it's vital that the momentum keeps going and we don't let the outrage die down!! If you can, donate! ACAB 1312 and FUUUCK 12!
> 
> right then so basically i was listening to home with you by fka twigs and thought about They and have not been able to recover since and hence this fic was born :-)  
> the title is from Night Shift by Lucy Dacus!  
> also little side note i am from the UK so if you're not from the UK the uni system i'm familiar with might seem a bit janky so i apologise!!!

Winter mornings are hard. This is a statement Akaashi has never known more absolutely than he does right now. There’s a muffled bang, the clattering of several kitchen utensils hitting the floor in quick succession, followed by a loud, brash laugh that comes as a burst before being smothered under the quick hiss of a ‘ _ Shhhhh!’.  _ Usually, such a sound is associated with a sort of sharp harshness, but this particular ‘ _ Shhhh!’  _ is weak, cowering and shaking slightly under the strength of the laughter threatening to burst through. He doesn’t need to open his door to guess which of his flatmates is the source of the disturbance- not that he knows his flatmates all that well. Well enough to know who’s noisy and who leaves their dishes in the sink, who stays out late and who leaves behind all their soap bottles in the shower. It’s not that it’s an active decision to remain at a distance- he  _ wants  _ to know them. Wants to go for drinks, to sit in the living area watching movies until he can hear birds outside, to be there knocking things over in the kitchen at 7AM on a Saturday. He wants these things- he does. But it just hasn’t worked out that way so far. It’s not that he’s shy, even, but he doesn’t like to impose. Can’t invite himself into nights out the way others do, doesn’t want to jump into conversations where he might not be welcome and his humour might be perceived as rudeness.

They’re not unkind, his flatmates. In fact, they’re overly friendly a lot of the time. There’s 6 of them, in total, sharing a living space, a bathroom and a kitchen. He only really sees Kuroo, Nishinoya and Kiyoko around however. He’s not too proud to admit that, socially speaking, he’s struggling. Moved in during September, currently it’s early November, and somehow he’s not managed to acquire anything beyond a polite acquaintance here or there, a very occasional study session with Kiyoko, some (promptly but politely rejected) party invites from Nishinoya and the odd Friday evening where he sits and watches volleyball games on TV with Kuroo. They try, but he knows his lack of outwardly displayed emotion can be off-putting to some. Akaashi knew university would be different, harder. More assignments, more pressure, less help. Right now though, it’s just resoundingly lonely. 

The neon green shirt hanging off the handle to his wardrobe seems to be staring at him. He has a shift at 9AM, a fact which lingers in the back of his brain like a wine stain on a white carpet. The nametag is basically a taunt. ‘ _ Hi! My name is  _ Akaashi ,  _ please ask me for assistance! :-)’  _ written in bright green text, the corner peeling upwards slightly where the sticker has come away from its metal backing. Worse than both the tag and shirt combined is the hat. It’s too big for his head, flattens his hair into something awful and has the company logo stitched across the front, as if he’s a walking billboard. It’s a shit job, but it’s a job. He’s in no position to quit and look for something better, a fact painfully hammered in by his recent bank statements. 

Immediately as he enters the combined kitchen and living area, it’s like every sense is being assaulted. Kuroo and a man he’s never seen before are stood huddled together over the sink, muttering among themselves as Kuroo seems to be trying to remove something from the bottom of a pan with a chisel-like motion. This does not strike Akaashi as a surprise. Upon hearing his entering, the both of them whip around like two children caught in the act of a playground conspiracy, looking between themselves as if to communicate through glances for a second before both sets of eyes turn upon Akaashi. They both look mildly apologetic, at least. 

“Akaashi! Shit, man, did we wake you? I’m so sorry if we did.” Kuroo laughs sheepishly, looking away from Akaashi to glance at the pan behind him once again. “This isn’t your pan, don’t worry.” He adds, face contorting lightly at the mess in the pan. As he speaks, the currently nameless man next to him glances between the pan and Kuroo’s face rapidly, gradually devolving into laughter. It starts with a curl in the corner of his lip, rapidly losing control and snowballing into a shake that racks the entire length of his shoulders and his chest. A long, sharp arm shoots out to elbow his side, yielding a surprised yelp and a shout of  _ Kuroo!  _

“No worries, Kuroo. I was awake already. Work.” He offers a civil smile to them both as he speaks, gesturing lightly to the uniform. He takes a second to look away from Kuroo and observe the man next to him. He’s tall- not as tall as Kuroo, but tall. Well built, which is something Akaashi can appreciate on a cold morning. Perplexingly, his hair is styled straight upward in some kind of gel that reminds Akaashi overwhelmingly of an owl. It suits him, which is perhaps even more perplexing than the style itself. His eyes are directly fixed on Akaashi, not even looking away once Akaashi stares back. He can’t see the colour under the weak kitchen light, but the way they crinkle at the corners as he laughs makes Akaashi’s face feel warm despite the persistent draught coursing through their flat. 

Kuroo nods momentarily, before he seems to realise something and mentally catches himself. “Oh! Akaashi, this is Bokuto. He’s on the volleyball team with me. This mess here is all him.” Another indignant squawk of protest, followed by a shove from Bokuto this time. Kuroo is grinning easily, shoulders lax, turning back around partially to resume his scraping technique. 

“It is not! I mean… yeah, it is. But I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to leave it overnight, y’know?-” He reminds Akaashi of a cartoon, the way he emotes with his entire body. It’s shockingly endearing. “-Nobody thinks to tell you this stuff!” He seemingly deflates, huffing and leaning backwards into the kitchen counter to lean on his hands. Kuroo shakes his head lightly at this, snickering as he works. The pan looks pretty bad from what Akaashi can see, but not unsalvageable. He doesn’t recognise it, so Bokuto must’ve brought it from his own kitchen for Kuroo to take a whack at. He allows himself a soft exhale of amusement, looking between the pan and Bokuto’s exaggerated expression of dismay. 

“It’s alright, Bokuto-san. It happens to all of us.” He offers. Immediately Bokuto seems to perk up again, turning to Kuroo to stick out his tongue. Akaashi thinks for a second, frowning lightly at the mess in the pan before the memory he’s searching for resurfaces. “Have you tried boiling it for 15 minutes with baking soda, then scrubbing? That’s what my mum used to do, anyway.” At this, Kuroo hums for a second before snapping his fingers, reaching into the far corner of one of the cabinets and retrieving a small tub of the aforementioned powder. Distantly, he finds himself wondering if it came with the kitchen. It’s probably old enough. 

“Ah, you’re a genius, Akaashi! Say your thanks, Bokuto. Maybe Kenma won’t kill you for massacring his pan now.” He snorts, a fond expression overtaking his face as he sets to work. 

“Akaashi! You’re a lifesaver!” Immediately, Bokuto straightens up to throw himself at Akaashi in a tight hug. Before he has a chance to respond, though, he’s retracted again and returned to his position against the kitchen counter. The warmth is sorely missed, despite only feeling it for a second. “He’s a scary one, Kenma! I had to smuggle that pan out before he saw it-” At this, a small pout. “Stop laughing at me, Kuroo! You asshole!” 

“Hey! I’m the one scraping your drunkenly burnt omelette off Kenma’s favourite pan! Watch it, you horned owl bastard!” At this, the two settle into a comfortable state of bickering. Akaashi wants to stay. He wants to stay, to keep laughing with Kuroo, keep smiling warmly at Bokuto, but it’s nearing 8:15AM now and he doesn’t want to be late for his shift. God, he hates his job. He makes his exit quietly, offering a simple ‘nice to meet you, Bokuto-san’ and a smile. He’d say he hopes to see Bokuto around again, which in all honesty he does, but he’s not really sure what he’d say even if he did. He lets himself get away with fantasising about it as he trods to where his car is parked nonetheless. 

Akaashi’s car is nothing fancy, but it’s what he can afford right now. It’s pre-owned and the front right door handle sticks in the cold, meaning you have to climb across from the left, but it’s  _ his  _ and he feels an overarching fondness for it despite the many faults and the occasional safety violation. He turns the key, presses down on the pedal. Immediately the car gives out a weak sputter, before going silent again. There’s a few seconds where Akaashi’s brain stops to comprehend what’s just happened before the immediate dread kicks in. He turns the key again, again, again. It makes no difference. About 10 minutes go by of Akaashi staring blankly at the wheel, teeth grit together. Fuck. If he were a person of less composure, he might scream right about now. He really can’t afford this. There’s no money, there’s no time, there’s no public transport running from the flat to the store, he’s going to be late, he’s going to have to phone and listen to his manager blame him, he’s going to- before he even gets the simple luxury of spiralling further, there’s a knock on the window. Spiked hair, sharp nose, wide, affable grin. Bokuto. He steps back from the window momentarily, to give Akaashi space to slip out. 

“Ah, Bokuto. Did you need something?” His tone is light, impersonal. He might be having a rough morning so far, but there’s no benefit in letting Bokuto know that. Somehow, he seems to be able to tell anyway, though. Most people struggle to differentiate between Akaashi’s slight expressions, but Bokuto seems like the type of person who feels exactly what you’re feeling in the deepest sense, no matter how hard you try to hide it. There’s a brief moment of consideration on Bokuto’s part, like he’s not quite sure exactly what angle to approach Akaashi from. 

“Hey! Akaashi! Well, it seems more like  _ you _ need something, eh?” It’s a teasing remark, accompanied by a soft, mirthful eyebrow raise. “I’m on my way out to go sneak this pan back into Kenma’s drawer in the kitchen. If you need a ride, it’s no biggie! A friend of Kuroo’s is a friend of mine, or whatever the saying is.” He’s smiling broadly as he speaks, an expression Akaashi feels warmly familiar with despite meeting Bokuto just this morning. He’s constantly moving, bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of his feet with his hands burrowed into his coat pockets. Akaashi feels like he should say no, say he’s very grateful but he doesn’t want to get in Bokuto’s way, doesn’t want to cause an inconvenience. But, unfortunately, there’s a selfish part of him that is both painfully aware of the minutes ticking by and hopelessly excited at the prospect of elongated human contact beyond a simple greeting. An even more selfish part of Akaashi thinks spending 10 minutes in a car staring at Bokuto’s arms sounds like the least he deserves right now, too. 

“That… would be very helpful. Thank you, Bokuto-san.” He responds demurely, following the gesture of Bokuto’s head and falling into step next to him. His car is parked close by, black in colour. It looks at least as shitty as Akaashi’s, which makes him feel mildly better about himself. There’s one thing he immediately notices about Bokuto’s car: it’s extremely cluttered, which he could have anticipated. Not necessarily unclean- apart from the few snack wrappers discarded in the cup holder, there’s no actual trash to be seen. It’s mostly a mixture of random sports equipment, books and bags. A half deflated volleyball rolls around in the back seat and he can feel the several gym bags haphazardly piled up in the back seat’s foot compartment digging into his back through the thin chair. The two front seats are left miraculously unobstructed, though there’s a sun bleached cat sticker on the dashboard staring right at Akaashi. 

“Sorry about the mess…” Bokuto begins, laughing self consciously and avoiding looking directly at Akaashi for a second before they lock eyes. It’s dark out still, but the winter sun is beginning to peek through the sombre morning clouds and he can see now that Bokuto’s eyes are a deep gold in colour, like two shining medals. He turns his key, several large keychains clacking together as the car starts. “It’s not usually this bad, I swear! It’s just… well, I don’t really have an excuse. Mostly I’m just lazy!” He laughs brightly at this, pulling off out of the parking lot with ease, if a little too fast for Akaashi’s comfort. 

“It’s the store next to the gym, which I’m assuming you know where that is considering you’re on the team with Kuroo. Thanks for this again, Bokuto. I’d really be in trouble without you.” 

“Aaah, no worries, ‘Kaashi!” He takes his hand off the wheel to flap it nonchalantly in Akaashi’s direction for a second, before promptly settling it back. “You saved my life and cleared me of my pan-related crimes, after all! We’re even now, how about that?” 

There’s a comfortable lull between them as Akaashi flashes a subdued, grateful smile, Bokuto’s eyes flickering to the side for just a second to grin back. Bokuto isn’t one to sit in silence, however, so he presses on.

“So what are you studying? You look smart, like a math-y person or something. I suck at math, big time. Kuroo’s mentioned you before, but no details.” Bokuto’s style of conversation, generally, is to just ramble and hope whoever he’s rambling to manages to pick up the pieces. Akaashi finds himself taking in every word that leaves his mouth. 

He titters lightly, like Bokuto’s just told a joke. The expression on Bokuto’s face tells him that he doesn’t really know why Akaashi’s laughing, but he’s glad to see it nonetheless. 

“I’m actually studying literature. I’d like to work for a big publishing firm someday, I think. What about you, Bokuto-san? You seem like you’re pretty into your volleyball.” Bokuto’s chest puffs proudly at this, reminiscent of a preening bird. 

“Yup! I’m on a volleyball scholarship, actually. I’m studying sport science, but ideally I think I’d want to play pro volleyball. Hey, scrap that, I will play it! Gotta keep confidence, y’know?” Akaashi nods- he’s not convinced that such things can be manifested through pure confidence and determination, but he can admire the optimism nonetheless. 

“I don’t know if Kuroo-san might’ve mentioned it, but I used to play setter back in high school.” Immediately as the words leave Akaashi’s lips, Bokuto’s hands are flying off the wheel again in an excited flurry of expressions and noise. On anyone else, it would be too much, but Akaashi finds himself actually enjoying the freedom with which Bokuto feels everything. It makes him feel like he can let himself feel visibly, too.

“Whaa-?! No kidding! That’s so fucking cool! Oh, we should totally play sometime! Come on, just one game!” He sees the look on Akaashi’s face and immediately laughs, eyes flitting between Akaashi, the rearview mirror and the road. “Don’t look so… bleugh about it! It’d be real fun.” 

Akaashi hums, noncommittal. It would be fun, purely to see Bokuto in a game, watch him play. He doesn’t say this, though. 

“Bokuto-san, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Does your hair freeze that way in the cold?” There’s no response for a few long seconds after he says it, and the panic is immediate. Oh god, he thinks. Oh god the blunt humour type of joke didn’t land and he’s hurt and he’s going to kick me out and watch me roll into the ice on the road behind him and he doesn’t understand I’m kidding and I actually think it suits him and I-

  
He doesn’t get much further because Bokuto practically explodes with the strength of his laughter, leaning forward into the wheel as his entire body shakes with it. He’s turning pink slightly, trying to control himself and failing with a spectacular splendour as he nears the shop. Every time he calms, he starts again, even harder than before. Distantly, Akaashi notices he feels pretty triumphant. 

“Fuck, Akaashi! You’re really funny! To answer your absolutely terrific question, no, it does not. However I am OBSESSED with the idea of trying to make that happen.” He’s calm enough to respond now, though his voice is still shaky with it, wavering now and then to trail off in another fit of giggling. He’s pulled into the parking lot next to the store now, immediately swivelling his torso to face Akaashi as the car comes to a stop. 

“Gimme your hand!” He demands excitedly, neglecting to wait for Akaashi’s response before gently taking it from its position in Akaashi’s lap anyway, rifling around in the side of his car door and retrieving a pen. The pen is cold against Akaashi’s skin and it’s running out slightly, but he can just about make out the numbers scrawled across the slightly cracked skin on the back of his hand. “My number! One, so we can get that game going, two, because you’re really funny and we should hang out. Well- not should. We’re  _ gonna  _ hang, whether you want to or not!” Another beam, before he checks the time quickly with a glance at his phone. 

Akaashi nods, smiles, thanks him for the ride again, wishes him the best of luck with sneaking the pan back and exits. 

As soon as Bokuto’s gone he puts the number into his phone.

\---

A week passes. It’s the next Friday, now. Bokuto has been there three nights out of six and Akaashi finds it to be the opposite of a problem. Nobody has ever texted him quite so much as Bokuto, nor has anyone ever warranted such fast responses from Akaashi. It’s nice. Through Bokuto’s reach, he’s acquired Kuroo’s number too. They walk to their lectures together, sometimes they study together, they talk and joke more now and it’s just...nice. It’s probably quite a negative testament to Akaashi’s ability to make friends that he needed a middleman to befriend his own roommate, but it’s easier not to dwell. What matters is that somehow, within a week of knowing Bokuto, he’s felt more companionship and affection than his entire university career thus far. He’s not an overly expressive person- he feels, just as much as anyone, but he likes to keep it to himself. But it’s not as easy to suppress smiles, and snippy jokes, and blunt comments around Bokuto- a fact he finds to be agreeable, to his own surprise. University is still hard- their student flat is terrible, his assignments stack faster than he can keep up, his job still sucks. But it’s not so lonely. He finds that this simple act of companionship is enough for him. 

\--- 

Within a month, Bokuto (with a little prodding from Kuroo, too) has wrangled Akaashi into playing two games. Akaashi’s surprised at his own ability to keep up with the ragtag bunch Bokuto had managed to gather for their team- he’d assumed that after he stopped playing in secondary school he’d rust over and lose his touch, but from the way Bokuto whoops every time Akaashi sets to him, he assumes he can’t be that bad. The encouraging grins he gets from Bokuto, as well as the (frankly, quite sweaty) hugs and shoulder thumps make him all the more sure. Bokuto is a kind, sensitive-to-a-fault person, but he struggles to say anything he doesn’t feel. If he didn’t think Akaashi was good, he’d do a terrible job of hiding that fact. Not for lack of trying, of course. It’s probably a good thing that he feels with such vigour and he’s so easily afflicted, then. That’s just Akaashi’s observation anyway. His very, very,  _ suspiciously _ close observation. Faintly, he wonders if the comparisons his mind subconsciously supplies between a certain pair of gold eyes and the warmth of the elusive sun can be filed under ‘observations’ too. 

Kuroo captains the opposite team on both occasions, a man with longer, pulled back hair in a dye job that reminds Akaashi of flan and a bored expression setting behind him. Kenma, he learns. He was in his first year, like Akaashi. He finds a friend in Kenma easily- mostly, because Kenma actually takes the effort to approach him and thank him for his saving grace role in the pan slaughter of the previous month. They find an easy rhythm of snarky comments, a comfortable level of silence and a certain kind of subtle humour that tends to go over everyone else’s heads. Akaashi can appreciate that Kenma’s a quiet person who doesn’t enjoy exertion, finds comfort in finding someone similar to himself in that aspect. In turn, Akaashi’s got an uncanny talent for keeping Bokuto in check that Kenma seems to appreciate greatly. Together, they just about manage to stop Kuroo and Bokuto devolving into full on trash talk mode. At the end of it all, there’s only a quick tearful moment and an exclamation of ‘Bro..!’ needed to get them talking again. According to Kenma, this is a momentous feat. 

The cold snap of the weather just keeps getting harsher as they enter December, a fact Kuroo bemoans with great extravagance as they quickly pace towards the library. It’s a particularly severe Monday morning- snow is expected, even. The thought of attempting to sleep tonight, knowing their flat’s central heating is about as reliable as a wonky compass, is enough to almost get Akaashi to join in with Kuroo’s grand display of despondency. 

“..Can’t stand this anymore, my fuckin’ fingers are freezing off!” Kuroo mutters, flexing the reddened tips of his fingers a few times as if to try and fight off the encroaching stiffness that cold brings. It makes little effect, and he quickly stuffs his hands back into his pockets as the wind picks up again. 

“I’ve offered you my gloves, Kuroo-san. My jacket’s lining is a lot thicker than yours-” This is said with a pointed tone that Kuroo certainly does not miss, sticking his tongue out and furrowing his eyebrows at Akaashi’s glance down at the offending jacket. It’s thin, black denim with no lining or insulation, layered over an old hoodie. “-so the gloves would do you more good than me. Please, just take them.” Akaashi moves as if to start removing his gloves, but Kuroo’s quick to shake his head and sigh in a way that tells Akaashi he’s fully aware he’s making a martyr of himself, and it is  _ entirely _ purposeful. 

“No, no, I’ll just suffer. When my fingers fall off and they kick me off the volleyball team, though, you’ll be the one who has to tell Bo why. Because you didn’t mother me enough.” At this, Kuroo grins and nudges Akaashi’s side. The most Akaashi is willing to offer in exchange during this little barter of expression is a mild eye roll, accompanied by a nearly undetectable mouth twist that makes Kuroo grin even wider. 

“It seems more like it’s because you value fashion over practicality.” 

“A man has to look good, Akaashi! You wouldn’t understand my plight with those huge doe-eyelashes of yours.” He pauses, scowling for a moment before his expression lightens up again. They’re coming upon the library entrance now- it’s old and grand, at least ten times more so than any other building on campus. In the summer there’s supposed to be ivy clamouring up the pillars on either side of the front door, but right now there’s just brittle, dead twigs. Akaashi can feel himself pick up speed at the mere thought of the space heaters on offer inside. Kuroo decides he isn’t quite finished on his tirade, opening his mouth to continue.

“You know I had a hat on earlier, at practice? I’m sat there, getting packed up to leave the gym, minding my business. And Oikawa- you know Oikawa, don’t you?- well, he has the nerve to tell me I look like a swaddled rooster and laugh at me! It’s a harsh world, Akaashi. I’d rather be cold than give Oikawa ammunition.” At this, Akaashi finally offers a fully formed smile of amusement. This, he can understand at least. He does know Oikawa. He’d probably choose to be cold too. 

“Well that probably has more to do with your hair, Kuroo-san.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with my hair! At least my hair does this naturally, instead of whatever the fuck Bo has going on.” With this little comment, Kuroo’s laid the bait. Akaashi knows he’s being baited. He bites anyway, against his superior judgement. 

“Bokuto-san’s hair is fine. Unorthodox, but so is he. It fits.” As soon as he speaks the word ‘fine’, there’s a certain type of ingenuine smile that narrows Kuroo’s eyes. A dark eyebrow shoots up, and Akaashi can hear the words before they’re even said aloud. 

“You always defend Bokuto. That’s interesting.” 

  
“Kuroo.”

“It’s just interesting!” They share a long, dry stare at this. Anyone else might continue pressing, but Kuroo knows when to back off, and so he relents. He pokes fun at Akaashi, but it never crosses the line. This is something Akaashi can appreciate immensely. The ability to be mindful of an unspoken set of social boundaries is one Akaashi values more than he knows how to word. He hopes Kuroo can tell he’s appreciated anyway.

As they enter the library through the heavy wooden doors, there’s a familiar face at the opening desk. Kenma is sat, a university-issued blue lanyard with an ID attached around his thin neck. Right. Akaashi forgot he worked in the university’s library running the log system- he’s not one for jealousy and he likes to think he has a good grasp on his emotions, but the envy he feels for Kenma’s employment situation is deep and seething. As they approach the desk, Kenma offers a quiet greeting to them both, which Akaashi is happy to mirror with a polite nod. Without speaking, Kuroo stops in front of the desk, slinging his bag forward to dig through the main compartment for a moment. Kenma’s eyebrow is raised and he’s giving Kuroo the most unimpressed look Akaashi has ever seen. Bokuto would laugh at it, if he was here. Finally, Kuroo seems to find what he’s looking for with a faint ‘Hah!’. He produces it like a sought-after prize, which makes the reveal of a cereal bar somewhat underwhelming. The look in his eye is one that says ‘do not, under any circumstance, argue with me on this’ as he slides the bar across to Kenma. It’s tense, watching them have a micro argument without even speaking the words aloud. Finally, Kenma seems to decide that conceding is in his best interest and that protesting further would only cause unnecessary exertion. Kuroo looks exceptionally pleased with himself as he walks away, looking behind him to watch Kenma take a bite. It’s a soft moment that takes Akaashi aback, slightly. It’s like he’s witnessed something that was intended to be private. He does not think about white and black hair. 

“You know, Kuroo-san, you’re kind of a mother hen yourself, really. Hairstyle notwithstanding.” Akaashi quips innocuously, settling into their library table of choice. It’s the smallest table, but it’s the only one on the lower floor that doesn’t wobble when you try to write on it. There’s a wonky looking bird scratched into the corner, along with the letters H.S + K.T 4EVR! He thinks it’s meant to be a crow, but honestly, he really can’t tell. 

“I’m going to ignore that little remark there because I know Kenma is just looking for reasons to eject me from this library and I refuse to make his job easy for him. It’s only because I know he forgets to eat. Don’t you start expecting cereal bars too.” Kuroo glances back at Kenma once more, though he has his back to the two as he types rapidly at the outdated computer system and hasn’t turned to look back so far. He seems to be forcing himself to do it, but he has made progress on the cereal bar. It’s probably more to do with placating Kuroo’s worry than it is with actually sustaining himself, Akaashi thinks. It’s sweet. He responds to Kuroo’s statement with only an understanding hum, retrieving his books and pens from his own bag as Kuroo does the same. 

After about 20 solid minutes of analysis and essay writing on Akaashi’s part, chemical formulas on Kuroo’s, the other man’s phone lights up momentarily on the desk. A moment passes in which Kuroo stops to respond. Akaashi wouldn’t care or even take notice, if it wasn’t for the conspiratorial look that Kuroo’s giving him as his eyes flit between the phone and Akaashi like a flickering lightbulb. He doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to know. But he’d rather prepare himself in whatever way he can for whatever that look means. He doesn’t even get a chance to question before Kuroo’s placing the phone face down on the desk once again, leaning forward to rest his head against his palm as he stares Akaashi down. 

  
“Bokuto’s joining us.” Kuroo can’t suppress the quiet snicker any longer at this. Akaashi remains a blank slate, face devoid of anything that could be used as a tell. He’s not giving Kuroo anything.

“I didn’t take Bokuto-san as a man who meshes well with libraries.” 

  
“He doesn’t. Kenma might have a stroke.” 

“Yet he’s joining us.” 

“Look, I can’t explain it- ” A narrowing of Akaashi’s eyes, an ever widening grin of pure self-satisfaction stretching across Kuroo’s face. “- Oh wait, yes I can, actually! It so happens to correlate with me name dropping a certain someone who has the initials A.K.” Kuroo seems to sink further into his palm as he speaks, sharp, angular shoulders rising with the motion. It reminds Akaashi overwhelmingly of the way cats arch their backs before they hiss at you.

“Maybe he’s decided to take an interest in studying.” Kuroo can’t hold back the scoff at this response. Akaashi can’t even blame him for that one- Bokuto is not somebody who likes to sit in a silent library and be still for even seconds at a time. He’s only known Bokuto for a month, but he knows this to be a fact from personal experience. 

“Look, Akaashi, I’m not saying anything. I’m just saying that’s… interesting.” 

“Stop calling things that are decidedly uninteresting interesting.” 

  
“I’m just saying! It’s gotta be written in the stars or some shit. I have never, in my entire friendship with him, seen someone keep a lid on Bo even half as effectively as you do. He’s at our place for you way more than he is me, and when he  _ is  _ there for me? He basically ditches me for you instead anyway. Remember when we played volleyball last tuesday, and he threw his jacket off, and you fuckin… caught it? In one hand? Like you saw it coming a mile away? It’s literally comical.” Kuroo’s grin hasn’t faded, but it has taken on a degree of genuinity that unnerves Akaashi even more than the previous air of smugness did. He could handle smug and smarmy. An earnest discussion on the unexplainable magnetism between him and Bokuto is considerably harder to handle with a cool demeanour. 

It’s unexplainable, mostly, because Akaashi tends not to connect with other people often. He can be friends, he can laugh, he can joke. But real moments of raw human connection are few and far between. He does have moments, of course. Only this morning did he and Kuroo have their unspoken moment of mutual boundary acknowledgement and appreciation. But it’s different, with Bokuto. He’s never consistently had so many moments with anybody else before- it’s almost eerie how close he feels, sometimes. It might just be Bokuto’s penchant for unabashed emotion, but it feels deeper than that. He wants it to run deeper than that. It feels as though they just come together naturally. Like two notes in a chorus, or like orange comes next to red on the rainbow. It’s just how it goes, how it always has gone, how it always will go. If he were more of a romantic and a tad less self aware, he’d even make the stretch to say the universe wants them to connect. He’d never say this aloud. He’s aware of how it sounds. 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply here, Kuroo-san. We just get along.”

“Who says I’m implying anything, eh? All I’m doing is commenting on the very interesting things I happen to be seeing. Not a single implication in sight.” He picks up the phone once again as he talks, looking away from Akaashi to type. His composure doesn’t loosen for a second, even when no longer directly under those watchful eyes. “He’ll be here in ten, he says. He’s coming down from the gym.” 

  
“Straight from the gym?” Akaashi asks, trepidation crawling up the back of his neck like the dead ivy that swathes the concrete pillars just outside the library doors. A hyped up Bokuto, fresh out of the gym, in a quiet library where he will be expected to sit patiently and work. There’s a phrase Akaashi remembers, distantly. A bull in a china shop. An owl in a library. It’s not that Bokuto is a blundering fool or an overexcited child- it’s that he quite literally cannot contain his energy. He shakes, he clicks, he bounces his knees, he stands up just to sit back down again. It’s obviously not easy or pleasant for him. He doesn’t like to watch it happen.

“Yup.” 

“Kuroo-san, that’s-” 

“A terrible idea. Yeah. I’m seeing the flaws in this plan now.” Kuroo thinks for a moment, staring at the work in front of him. “We could meet him outside, say we got bored. His flat is close by. The building he’s in has actual functioning heaters, too.” A moment of consideration passes before they share a mutual nod, packing up in tandem.

“I can’t believe we've only been here for, like, 20 minutes, and we’re packing up for airhead supreme. This is the most useless study session I’ve ever embarked on to date. When I get dropped from this chemistry degree, I’m naming and shaming Bo without hesitation.” Kuroo bites with a sour inflection. Kuroo likes to complain, but it’s without any real heat and packed with a lingering feeling of fondness. It’s obvious Kuroo cares about his friends, visible in everything he does. 

They meet Bokuto without trouble. He’s like a stoked flame, exactly as Akaashi expected, chattering at a million miles a minute and gesturing with his hands flying in all directions. He speaks with so much zeal it makes even the most mundane of gym visits sound like the climax to an adventure novel. Each word said with more vigour than the last- his version of events is done so in a way that makes you forget entirely that you’re not actually listening to the plot of an action movie- you’re listening to Bokuto describe the time he dropped a huge dumbbell exactly 1cm away from his foot. It’s impressive, really. The walk to Bokuto’s flat is short, made even shorter by the wind that seems to have only increased in severity. 

Bokuto’s flat layout is almost identical to Kuroo and Akaashi’s, albeit marginally cleaner looking and overall more modern. The building is newer, flashier. All Akaashi can think is how much more expensive it probably is. Akaashi and Kuroo’s front door tends to stick as the hinges freeze up or the wood swells in the heat, but Bokuto’s opens smoothly with a simple flash of his keycard ID. The walls are painted white, sterile. There’s an obvious mark underneath it, perhaps a water stain, but at least somebody has made the effort of attempting to cover it up. The common room is empty, as Akaashi would generally expect on a Monday morning. There’s four rooms for four roommates as opposed to six, the other three of which seem to be out. Immediately upon entering Kuroo says something about needing the bathroom, leaving Akaashi and Bokuto alone. 

“Hey hey, Akaashi! You’ve never come over before, right?” Bokuto exclaims, pivoting in place to face Akaashi with his full body. He’s in the middle of removing his winter jacket, which he discards easily on a coat rack set up by the front door, reaching out a hand to take Akaashi’s own coat. 

“Ah, no, I haven’t. It’s quite similar to where me and Kuroo live. Nicer, though. Warmer.” He says the last word with an appreciative sigh. The warmth of the common area is starting to set in now, the ice edging his bones melting away the longer he’s basking in it. Bokuto’s face falls briefly, eyebrows furrowing.

“Man, I guess it does get pretty cold in you guys’ flat, huh? Well if you ever need to warm up, you know my door’s always open!” With this he returns to his former smile, moving to enter the kitchen area. “You thirsty? We don’t have much in right now. Kenma has some cokes in the fridge but I think he might try and smother me if I ever move in on his kitchen territory again…” He’s pouting, pushing bottles and other items out of the way as he searches. It sets off a particular sort of throb in Akaashi’s chest, a great burst that slowly settles into an uncomfortable warmth. He ignores it. 

“There’s no need to worry about me Bokuto-san, I’m totally fine. Thank you, though.” He clears the nervousness in his throat, hovering awkwardly by the kitchen counter. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Things usually flow naturally with Bokuto, but the intimacy of being in another person’s space like this has thrown him off guard. He finds his tongue feels too thick and he’s overthinking the simple decision of where to sit, eyeing up the grey sofa and armchair placed in front of the hefty TV. Bokuto doesn’t seem to notice the hesitance in Akaashi’s lack of movement, hip checking him casually as he strides past to slump down onto the sofa cushions. He pats the seat next to him, an expectant look in his eyes and a beam on his face. Akaashi needs no further beckoning. 

“Oh my God, ‘Kaashi, I just remembered. The funniest shit ever happened earlier, and it totally made me think of you! I was gonna text you but I stopped myself because I wanted to see your face when I said it so bad. Okay, so, I’m running with this guy called Iwaizumi who’s on the team, right?” Akaashi nods, silently urging Bokuto to continue. The fact that Bokuto thinks of him- sees things, associates them to Akaashi, wants to share them with Akaashi. It makes him feel shockingly tender, like if Bokuto placed a hand on him he’d bend with it, malleable to the touch. The story wouldn’t be as funny if anybody else was weaving it, but Akaashi finds his shoulders shaking as Bokuto comes to a finish. He speaks with his whole body, jumps up, makes sound effects. He speaks to Akaashi like there’s nobody else in the world he’d rather speak to, like there’s nobody he’s ever been so ecstatic to see. He can never quite tell if this treatment is expressed to everyone, or if it’s reserved for him. Selfishly, he hopes it’s something only he gets to feel the full force of. 

“So what did he do? After you pushed him? He doesn’t seem like the type to take that lightly.”

“Oh, he totally threw a shitfit. Called me an owl bastard and all. It’s his fault, he started it! He needs to spend less time around Kuroo, honestly.” Bokuto sighs, leaning back into the cushion. There’s a comfortable lull in the conversation where they simply sit, looking at each other and laughing softly. Akaashi allows himself a grin, which Bokuto returns in full force. His hair is dishevelled from his time in the gym and some of the front strands have fallen forward out of place, curled softly against his forehead in a way that Akaashi finds his eyes centering on. He can see where Bokuto’s been running his hands through it. Wants to follow the paths with his own fingers, map it out himself. God, that’s the most cliché thought he’s ever had. It rings true, though, despite the fact it makes Akaashi feel like he’s living a telenovela. 

Kuroo returns at that moment, vaulting over the back of the sofa and directly into Bokuto. There’s a mild tussle, some swearing, before Kuroo rolls off with a howl of laughter onto the floor. Bokuto kicks his side softly, attempting to fix his hair with a grumble hair where Kuroo has tousled it out of place even further. Life feels easy, like this.

The hours melt by as if they were a lit candle, thick and warm and easy, his body curled vaguely into Bokuto’s direction from his side on the sofa. They play video games for most of it, for which Akaashi merely offers moral support and the occasional quip that makes Bokuto wheeze. He pointedly makes an effort to firmly remain cheering on Bokuto’s side, purely to rile Kuroo up. It works spectacularly. Usually Akaashi’s a man who remains to a strict schedule, but here it’s as though the hours slip away from him without so much as a whisper. Before he’s even noticed, it’s 5PM and Kuroo is standing from his position on the armchair, leaning backwards to stretch, long back curving with a quick crack as his expression turns to a wince. Bokuto rubs his eyes beside him, stretching his legs out too. 

“Yo, so like, I’m on the evening shift at the restaurant tonight and I gotta go. My shift starts in an hour and I have to change and everything. You coming back, Akaashi? It’s fine if not, I’ll call a car or something. Really not in the mood to trudge back right now and end up getting caught in the snow.” Kuroo speaks languidly, the warmth of Bokuto’s flat and the comfort of the chair weighing on his tone, looking at Akaashi as he awaits an answer. Bokuto’s whining before he gets the chance to consider his options, reaching one long arm out to latch a hand around Akaashi’s elbow and pull him into his side. 

“Noooo! Don’t leave, Kenma or Yukie won’t be back until late, I don’t wanna be bored and alone! And I’ll miss you! We can make dinner or something!” Bokuto wails, his words taking on an increased dramatic flair the longer he speaks. He’s winding both arms around Akaashi’s elbow now, pressing his cheek into Akaashi’s shoulder. He can feel the shape of his nose and the corner of his mouth through the fabric of his jumper. It’s enough to sideline his rationality completely. Akaashi sighs with a (mostly feigned) hint of resignation, shaking his head lightly at Kuroo. 

“I’ll stay. Have an easy shift, Kuroo-san.” At this, a whoop from Bokuto. He disentangles himself and jumps up all across the span of a couple seconds. The feeling is sorely missed. 

“Hell yeah! Enjoy your shift, Kuroo. Sucks to be you.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed waiting on a table in my life, but for you bro, I will certainly try.” Kuroo speaks with an unenthusiastic groan, glowering and sticking his tongue out at Bokuto as he nears the door to slip into his thin jacket. There’s a few moments of shuffling as he slips into his shoes, a salute, and he’s gone. 

Immediately Bokuto is on him like a wild dog to a piece of steak, dragging Akaashi up by his hands and guiding him into the kitchen. Akaashi lets himself be pulled far too easily, a tranquil expression overtaking his face as he laughs faintly along with Bokuto. He hoists himself up and settles onto the kitchen counter casually, the hesitance of earlier melted away with the warmth that encompasses everything Bokuto does. 

“So, what’s on the menu, chef Akaashi? We have a grand selection of… frozen pizza, microwave rice and some ramen cups. Or takeout. Yeesh, I need to hit the shop or something. This is a struggle fridge.” 

“Whatever you have is fine, Bokuto-san. You don’t need to cook for me, really.” Akaashi insists. Immediately Bokuto makes an elongated ‘ _ Blaaah!’ _ sound, flapping his arm as if to say ‘nonsense’. 

“Well you must be hungry, right? I sure as hell am. I don’t want you to go hungry, Akaashi! You need to eat, keep strong, y’know? I’d worry about you!” He says it so nonchalant, as if it’s nothing. But it feels like everything to Akaashi. He gives up on his current task of reshuffling the fridge as if it will magically produce more food to work with, instead closing the door with a soft click and turning to lean against it, looking directly at Akaashi. 

“We can just get a pizza. I’ll pay! I know you’re still saving for that car fix-up and I did some overtime at the shop last weekend, so it’s really no biggie! Plus, Yukie’s on shift right now and if we can catch her on the phone, she always puts a little discount on for me if I beg hard enough.” Akaashi is shaking his head immediately at the suggestion, rifling through his back pocket for his wallet. He doesn’t really have the expendable funds for takeouts right now, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hungry and while the thought of Bokuto being willing to pay casts his chest in a warm, syrupy feeling, he doesn’t actually want to impose like that.    
  


“It’s fine, Bokuto-san. I can split on a pizza with you.” 

“But Akaashi! Your car! I told you, I got it! If you’re that bothered, you can pay me back by coming to watch our practice or something sometime. That’s what I really want! Put the wallet away because I’m not taking it. I’m placing an order and you can’t stop me.” He’s dialling as he speaks, placing his hand over Akaashi’s lightly to push the wallet away with an overly serious look. Akaashi follows the motion, pocketing the wallet with an eye roll. He’ll just slip the money under the door and run when he leaves. Bokuto would probably be too busy laughing about it to chase him down. 

The order is placed. Bokuto ends up calling and hanging up quickly about three times before Yukie is the one who picks up, a fact which he can hear her bemoan harshly through the phone, even though it’s not on speaker. Bokuto is just laughing, the way he always does. It’s hard to hold anything against such an expression of pure warmth. They’re sitting, flicking through the TV channels and making comments, when Bokuto sits at attention suddenly to stare at Akaashi. There’s a Bokuto-shaped shadow cast over his face as Bokuto leans over him, grinning at Akaashi as if he’s just had the idea of a lifetime. 

  
“Your apartment is cold as fuck, right?” Bokuto asks, tone shaking with suppressed excitement. 

“You could say that, yes.” 

“I have literally the best idea ever. Sleepover! We got a pizza, a futon, heating. You can wear some of my stuff or something to sleep. It’s like a highschool movie!” Bokuto’s staring at him and he’s hopeful- so earnestly hopeful, that Akaashi is hard pressed to say no. He doesn’t like staying anywhere he doesn’t live, doesn’t like lingering and forcing his way into someone else’s space. Bokuto is different though. He wants to envelop himself completely.

“Well. If you want me to, I suppose I don’t have any early lectures tomorrow.” 

“Yes-!” A rapid motion of triumph, a fist pumped into the air. “-Akaashi, you’re like, the best! Of course I want you to! I’ll drive you home tomorrow if you want. It’s supposed to snow. I didn’t want you to have to go back in that, and it’ll save you walking in it tomorrow. Fuck, we need a movie, stat!” 

Akaashi settles back into that grey sofa cushion, watching Bokuto pat around for the remote like an overly excited puppy. He lets the warmth wash over him like a blanket, lets himself smile fully. He feels, somehow, like he’s where he’s supposed to be. Where he was always supposed to be. 

\--- 

It’s the following Saturday. Temperatures have remained on a low, but the snow has degraded to mush at this point. There’s not much surviving through the heavy rain of the past couple days, and what  _ is _ left is mostly mud and grit. It’s not very pleasant, but city snow never is. He’s on shift, 7:30PM, standing straight, eyes weary from the fluorescent lighting within the small convenience shop. His manager watches like a hawk, it feels like. She’s never liked Akaashi. Everything he does, she takes problem with. It’s obnoxious to the point of pushing even him toward a violent explosion of frustration, but he cools himself and focuses on simply letting the time pass instead. His car can’t afford to get fired for mouthing off, after all. He’s so tired, but he wouldn’t dare to lean forward or slouch under her gaze. 

He’s had, in the floweriest terms applicable, a shit shift so far. 9AM til 8PM tonight. He’s been picking up extra hours here or there, but they’re few and far between and hard fought for. The lights bear down on him, constantly. He feels like an ant frozen beneath a magnifying glass in here- it’s stifling. The neon green colour scheme of the company certainly doesn’t help. He picks at the corner of his name tag sticker mindlessly, eyeing up a woman who looks like she’s coming toward the till. 

He scans automatically, takes the card automatically. It’s robotic, but he’s beyond the point of offering a falsified smile. This customer seems uninterested in small talk anyway, staring out the shop window into the dark street outside with a tap of her foot. He feels his phone vibrate silently in his back pocket, scanning the card across without even checking. He hopes it’s Bokuto. Bokuto has taken up a lot of his thoughts on this shift so far. 

The card declines. He pauses for just a second, looking between the card in his hand and the woman before him. He hadn’t even thought to look, but now that he is looking, he can see it’s not even a credit card. The words ‘Tokyo City Gym Membership’ stare at him in silver writing, his gaze flickering across it lightly. 

“Ma’am? I’m so sorry, but this is a gym card. I’m going to need a viable payment, please.” He says it with all the pleasantry he can muster. It’s polite enough, but the woman seems to be looking for a fight today. Her eyes flare and he knows immediately she doesn’t want to make life easy for him. This is the third one today. He considers climbing over the desk and throwing his hat to the floor, like he’s in a movie, like he knows things will just work out alright, like life just fits around him. It doesn’t. He remains at his station, simply steeling himself. 

His manager swoops in the minute the woman begins her power trip. Somehow, this feels worse than simply taking the argument with a smile and a company issued apology. He knows it’s going to come up on his report at the end of the month. Fuck, he hates his job. 

“Akaashi, how about you take a break, okay? I’ll cover this.” 

He needs no further convincing. He’s gone without a second glance to the woman- the situation is seriously tipping him over the edge for today, but he can take pleasure in the way she lays into his manager as he retreats at least. As soon as he’s in the break room, he sinks onto the small bench provided for them. He actually might cry. He’s not a person who cries, but he is human, and sometimes it’s just too much. He pulls his phone out to look at the message, swallows roughly, takes a breath. 7:46PM now. He can stick it- the end is in sight, and Akaashi isn’t a quitter. He can manage. The text is from Bokuto, which makes things feel a little brighter at least. It’s an abundance of emojis but the general gist boils down to ‘call me when you can!’. He can hear the woman raging on even through the closed door of the break room, so he calls. He needs it. 

It doesn’t ring for long. 

“Akaashi! Hey, hey, hey! How’s your shift going? You get out early?” He sounds so cheerful, like he’s on a separate plane of existence from the dim break room he currently resides in. The steel bench is cold even through the back of his trousers and the light overhead flickers every now and then. There’s a fly trapped inside somehow, throwing itself against the wavering bulb. Akaashi feels the same. 

“Ah, no. Just… taking a quick break. What did you want me to call for?” His voice sounds flat, flatter than it does normally. He hopes it doesn’t sound so bad through the phone. 

“No reason, I just missed your voice!” He inhales sharply at this. These casual professions of affection catch him every single time. He thrives on them, relies on them for survival. “How’s your shift going? You sound tired.” 

“It’s…” He considers lying, but Bokuto would want the truth. “It’s bad, honestly. Like this woman just tried to pay with a gym card. I mean, who pays with a gym card, Bokuto-san?” He leans forward, elbow resting on his knee with his forehead pressed to his palm. Closes his eyes, but the surgically white lighting is burned into his retinas anyway. 

  
“Wow! Even I’m not that dumb. You holding up okay? I can come over after your shift, if you want? I’m not busy!” Bokuto sounds so genuine that it makes Akaashi smile despite it all, huff warmly. 

“That’s a lie, Bokuto-san. You have a deadline tomorrow. That’s more important. I have to go, but I’ll see you around. You have a practice match on Monday, don’t you? I’m working tomorrow but I’ll come see you then, okay?” 

“Akaashi!” It’s drawn out, a note of real, deep concern sinking into every letter. Bokuto’s the very definition of a bleeding heart, Akaashi thinks. 

“I’ll see you, okay Bokuto? If it’ll placate you, then know you’ve helped just by calling. Goodbye.” He hangs up, stares at the phone for a few seconds longer, returns to his post. It feels far too lonely to stay sat on that steel bench with no arm around his shoulder, no excited tone in his ear. 

\---

His shift comes to a slow, drawn out end, with all the urgency of a crumpled up newspaper floating along the river of rain on the side of the road. As soon as 8PM hits, he’s clocked out. The sky has darkened into a formidable shower outside, ice cold and unforgiving. He didn’t bring an umbrella when he came this morning, totally forgot. He wants to bang his head against the glass of the window. He doesn’t. It’s a 10 minute walk to the nearest bus stop, then a quick bus ride and a further 5 minute walk to his flat. If he just dives in, doesn’t loiter, it’ll be over faster. He tells himself so, anyway. The thought doesn’t make the icy shards of water hammering down outside look any more inviting.

He steps out, jacket raised over his head in attempts to stay as dry as possible. He feels a hand tap his arm, jumps about a mile as he swivels to see who it is. The jacket blocks his peripheral, but as soon as he sees the familiar coat and jersey he knows. Bokuto. He’s stood there under a streetlamp, beaming. He’s soaked through, water dripping down the line of his nose, but he’s still beaming. He looks like the hero in some kind of romantic drama, Akaashi thinks, even under the ominous street lamp that casts an iron-toned shadow over the lines of his face. The rusty glow catches and sparkles briefly in the droplets that linger in his hair, like a crown. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll dip him by the waist as if he was a prince, too. 

“Koutarou?” He’s so surprised the first name slips out without him even meaning it, but it only makes Bokuto smile wider.

“Surprise!” 

“Why- why are you here?” He makes an effort to shield Bokuto with his jacket as well, but it doesn’t do much good. Bokuto huddles in and chirps out a thank you at the gesture anyway. 

“Well- you sounded sad! Earlier, on the phone I mean. When you were telling me about that woman trying to pay with that gym card. Usually, you’d say something really quick, and smart! But-...” There’s a pause in his words, a still in the air. “-you didn’t. You just sounded, well, sad. So, hey! I figured I’d come walk you home, cheer you up! I didn’t think it’d rain, or I’d have driven. I’m pretty dumb, huh?” And that’s it. It’s such a simple explanation, and so, so earnest. Everything about Bokuto is earnest, though. Right up to the way his hair has renounced all traces of hair gel and keeled over sadly in front of his eyes, the rain sinking further into it with each second. 

There’s something manic in the way Akaashi starts to laugh. He’s laughing so hard he can actually feel tears starting to pool, his stomach starting to strain, his lungs setting into overdrive. Usually his laughter is barely laughter at all- it’s a light exhale, a breathy titter. Blink and you’ll miss it. But here he is, standing on the wet, shining pavement with his peeling nametag and company logo hat. And he’s laughing. He’s laughing, laughing, laughing, all because of this boy. This boy and his huge, all encompassing need to give more affection than Akaashi could ever possibly even hope to know what to do with. He’s laughing, all because it’s 8PM, he’s just had possibly the worst shift of his life, he’s exhausted, it’s raining, the cold is biting at him from every angle, his car still doesn’t start right so he’s been walking to and from work, his hair won’t lay flat in the morning, his favourite shirt has a small hole in the seam, the walls in his flat just keep on peeling and because despite everything, despite only really knowing Bokuto for the past five weeks, he’s here. At 8:05PM. In the hammering rain. After the worst shift of Akaashi’s life. In the piercing cold. He’s standing, waiting for Akaashi. And all he has to say for himself is ‘it’s because you sounded really sad earlier, is all’. It’s quick and sharp, a stab in the night, the realisation. The realisation that he wants to kiss Bokuto, that is. 

He doesn’t. He just catches his breath, wipes the tears away and smiles. They walk, in the pouring rain with jackets pulled over their heads, hands far too close together yet never close enough. At the bus station, they huddle unnecessarily tight together under the shelter for warmth. They both catch colds a week later, but he can’t find it in him to mind. He never minds when it’s Bokuto. 

He thinks he’d walk through the rain and catch a cold ten times over to feel that close to him again. 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so for clarity reasons just in case it seems confusing in the way i've written it, this is a timeskip to about 8 months ahead! this is august of the next year, just before Akaashi's second year at uni and Bokuto's third year starts :-)
> 
> recommended listening to maximise yearning....... refuge by the antlers

The months fall off the calendar with too much ease for Akaashi to ever be truly comfortable with, similar to the way rain trickles from an overflowing gutter in a storm. It feels as though he’s living inside of an oxymoron, sometimes. Things are exactly the way they’ve always been, and yet it’s like his life constantly ebbs and flows with change. Winter is cold, spring is mild, the sun rises at roughly 6AM, June is hot, July is hotter. He still looks at Bokuto and sees something infinitely brighter than the sun. These fundamentals, the basic building blocks of his life- they remain the same, unchanging. They move with him, but they never alter or fail. 

Other things are less permanent. For a lot of his life he’s felt like a goldfish amongst it all, swimming in circles within his bowl and watching things move around him. He lives with one cheek pressed up against the glass, watching, seeing, wanting to see more. But he never moves, never enters, only sits within his bowl alongside the colourful gravel and the plastic seaweed, wanting. It’s different now, though. He feels the changes happen, makes the decisions, sits within the change like a comfortable blanket. It feels good, better than it ever looked from the other side of those glassy walls. 

The first change comes in February, in the form of a very polite, concise two week notice letter. Bokuto knows Oikawa, who knows somebody else, who just so happens to know that the local city gym is looking for someone to help run the desk. Akaashi is being recommended before the job is even officially filed as ‘wanted’- it’s absurd to him, to think that someone who couldn’t even befriend their own flatmates without a helping hand is now what you’d consider ‘connected’, but it works in his favour so he doesn’t question it too deeply. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth is how the phrase goes, after all. The interview and consideration period is fairly quick- he’s being handed a new name tag before long, along with a grey polo. The corner doesn’t peel upwards on this name tag, and there’s no obnoxious little tagline. Just the simple print:  **Akaashi Keiji** . Already it feels like a step up from the convenience shop. He hands the green uniform back with his name tag and hat piled on top- it’s a form of catharsis like no other. He half expects to see angels descend from the steel toned sky as he turns his back on the glassy doors for the last time. 

April approaches softly, with mild temperatures and light rains. There’s flower beds dotted around campus that bloom seemingly overnight- muted hues of pink and orange where previously there was simply frozen dirt. There’s a movie that Bokuto drags Akaashi to see, something he’s been raving about since the beginning of March. Akaashi couldn’t care about the movie less, but Bokuto gets so excited during the pivotal final scene that he grabs Akaashi’s hand and doesn’t drop it until they’re exiting the cinema onto the street. He holds onto the memory with a vice grip, lays it over in his mind, thinks about the way Bokuto’s hands reflect himself, reflect his love for volleyball, his clumsiness with a kitchen knife. It should be an unremarkable evening spent with a friend, but this simple action of momentary hand holding runs away from him, makes it so much more. 

April also brings with it the second change- the most remarkable. It starts with black mold- dark and foreboding, gathering stubbornly in the corners of their flat windows. Kuroo bleaches it out several times, but it always creeps back in with the rain and the cooler nights. Then they notice a patch of damp on the bathroom ceiling. Then someone spills something on the carpet and nobody will come forward to claim the mishap. Then, finally, the spark that lights Kuroo’s fuse once and for all- his milk gets stolen (for the third week in a row he claims). Akaashi’s sat on the common room sofa with his glasses resting on his nose and a cup of coffee when Kuroo stands in front of him, drops a stack of papers in his lap that land together with a soft noise that startles Akaashi nonetheless. I want to move out, he says. Move with me. Kenma is on board and Bokuto will be too. He’s staring at Akaashi with such an expectant, hopeful look in his eye that Akaashi feels almost duty-bound to say yes. He doesn’t even think about leases or the difficulty of apartment hunting. He just thinks of the mold, the damp, the carpet, looks at the rent price and nods with a simple ‘Okay’. He definitely does not think about how it would feel to sit in a kitchen with Bokuto every morning, when his hair is down and his eyelashes are soft with the haze of sleep. Doesn’t think about that at all, not even for a second.

The apartment hunt is a struggle, but by mid-May they’ve found one. It’s long and tedious, working out the lease agreements with the student accommodation office, but they manage. The dust settles in their new apartment once they’re finally moved in and Akaashi finds he never looks back. The new apartment is simple, further out of campus, but overall nicer. He’s paying a little bit more than he was previously, but with the new job he manages. He still buys discount brand cereal instead of real brand, still looks ahead pointedly and waits for it to disappear when his check engine light comes on, but he does okay for himself. The windows in their new place stretch from floor to ceiling, and for the first time since he entered university Akaashi thinks maybe he’s found a place that could be a home. They hang cheap plants from the ceiling, put up photo frames and tapestries, pool together to buy themselves a small tv for the living room. They cook and clean together and when Bokuto spills red wine on their pale grey rug, he shrugs his shoulders, laughs with his head thrown back, says ‘hey, that spill looks like a dick!’ and apologises. It’s the closest he’s ever felt to other people before, addictive in the warmest possible way. Every night spent simply existing alongside one another the way they do is another twig in the nest that has formed inside Akaashi’s rib cage- he holds his friends there with a great tenderness. 

Of course, living with Bokuto is hard. It’s hard purely by virtue of how easy it is. It’s so easy to watch Bokuto drift into the kitchen on a Saturday morning, to pour him a coffee with milk and slide across their tin of sugar for him to add at will.  _ Their _ tin. He runs the words ‘ _ our tin’ _ over in his head like a mantra, thinks of the shape of the letters, thinks of what they imply. He’s convinced that Bokuto doesn’t actually like coffee and only drinks it because he thinks it helps his facade of maturity, but the thought makes him smile, so he keeps it to himself and simply pours, the glass pot gripped casually in his hand. The light from their windows cascades in luxurious waves across the entire apartment, catches on Bokuto’s eyelashes and the unruly wisps at the edge of his eyebrows. It’s sickeningly poetic, but Akaashi allows himself the simple pleasure of waxing on nonetheless. It’s easy to stay up late with him, Kenma and Kuroo on the sofa, watching the colours from their TV flicker across his face in a way that evokes imagery of stained glass. It’s easy to come in from the rain, place his umbrella inside of their stand and immediately see Bokuto’s head poking out from the kitchen, a cheery greeting plated and served as soon as their eyes lock. It’s so, so,  _ so _ easy, which terrifies Akaashi beyond all reason. He finds himself questioning just how easy it would be to fall into something else, to fall into Bokuto’s warm shoulder when he laughs, to fall onto white linen and into the space next to him at night. But he doesn’t like heights, or chances, and he prefers to keep his feet on the ground, so he merely observes Bokuto with wanton affection from his ledge instead. Out of the fish bowl, on to the ledge, he thinks. Out of the pan, into the flame. 

Not much else changes, beyond this. June and July pass with the ease of a clear summer stream, bustling on determinedly with a sweltering heat that tops at thirty degrees during mid-June before it finally breaks. They sit around, eat ice cream, drink, he goes to work, Bokuto comes in from work, Kuroo complains, Kenma hangs his lanyard on the coat rack then gets annoyed when it gets smothered in jackets, all moving together like a well oiled machine. They fit together well enough as a four, but he and Bokuto orbit around each other effortlessly. In fact, he’s closer to Bokuto than he’s ever been to anyone. It doesn’t feel close enough.

\---

August is thick with heat, humid and muggy in the way that makes Akaashi feel like he’s moving in slow motion. They keep the windows on an almost permanent state of open now, just to provide a small respite from the heat as the breeze picks up occasionally. It’s not swelteringly hot, but the air is still and the hours feel drawn out like thick strands of honey. They can’t afford any of the sleek air conditioning units they pass in the windows of the homeware and general electric shops lining the streets, but they keep a small fan in each room on the rotate setting. He’s sat on their kitchen stool now, placed directly in front of it. It’s weak and old- a relic from deep within storage back home. The plastic has yellowed slightly and there’s dust built up in the crevices around the buttons. It clicks into place every time it reaches the right side, before struggling for a moment, clicking once more, then jolting in the other direction. He’ll take it over the unshifting stillness that paralyses the air within their apartment, though. Kenma and Kuroo are out, Kuroo at work and Kenma off meeting a friend.

Bokuto groans from his place on the floor across the counter, his legs crossed against the lino tiles, leaning into the freezer door with his mouth open as if he were a dog. The shirt he’s wearing is thin, loose. The white material isn’t entirely opaque and so the vague outline of his back is visible in the light. Akaashi stares, catches himself staring, continues staring anyway. 

“Bokuto. You’ll melt everything in there if you sit much longer.” It’s an attempt to criticise, but the humour in his voice gives him away. Something about Bokuto erodes his knack for emotional control completely, leaves him open. He hates the vulnerability with anybody else, but here, amongst their tins and hanging rope plant holders and shared pots and pans, it feels safe. 

“I don’t care. Too hot to care. Is it just me, or is this apartment like a slow cooker?” Bokuto leans his head back to look at Akaashi as he speaks, shuffles slightly away from the freezer to allow the door to close an inch more. He speaks slowly, like he has to stop and allow every word to form in his mind before he sets it free into the world.

“I think it’s all the windows. They let the heat in.” 

“Probably. Hey, you’re way smarter than me. You’d know!” Bokuto quips, looking back at the freezer for a moment of pause before he shuffles away completely, allowing the door to click shut. “Oh God, Akaashi, I miss it already. What day is it? What month is it? Who am I? My brain is melting!” At this, he flops backwards onto the tile with a quiet thud, flicking an arm across his closed eyes like the damsel in an old Hollywood movie. 

“It’s a Sunday and we’re in August, Bokuto. It’s..-” He trails off, stops to read the clock hung on the wall. “..3PM, just about.” 

“We should go out!” Bokuto declares, opening his eyes with a quick blink. The sheer force of the light emanating from the embers that blaze behind his pupils still catches Akaashi off guard. If Helios were sat in that kitchen, he’d probably cover his face in shame, Akaashi muses. 

“Where to? It’s a Sunday. Things are closed, Bokuto.” He offers this as a gentle reminder, speaks with words encased in a bubble wrap of soft intonation, but he admonishes himself for being too harsh nonetheless when Bokuto’s face falls. He closes his eyes again, brings his forearm to cover the closed lids once more with a low ‘ _ ugh _ ’ noise. 

“Usually I’m all over it when you’re right, Akaashi, but for once I wish you weren’t. I’m so bored! And you’re, like, my favourite person. Ever! I’m never bored when I’m with you!” It’s spoken as casually and effortlessly as a greeting , as most of Bokuto’s words are. Yet again, Bokuto’s habitual confessions have caught him at a moment of weakness, have worked their way into his chest and knocked him off course completely. He takes a second for himself to luxuriate in the statement that he is, in fact, Bokuto’s favourite person. He thinks if he got any lighter he’d float. 

“You’re my favourite too, Bokuto.” He can see that Bokuto’s smiling at this, even beyond the arm currently blocking his face. He stops to think, lists up his options mentally and flicks through them as if he’s filing paperwork. “The park will be open, but we’d have to drive there. We could take a walk, catch the breeze?” He suggests, as he leans into the fan further to observe Bokuto’s reaction; it’s immediate. He throws his arm down at his side and sits up, scrambling to stand. 

“Holy fuck! We could picnic! Oh my God, I haven’t had a picnic all summer. Your genius frightens me sometimes, Akaashi. I have one of those backpacks that keeps shit cold in my room. You accumulate the snacks whilst I search, okay? I might uh, need a few minutes to… locate it.” He’s walking as he speaks, smacks a hand to Akaashi’s shoulder in good humour as he passes. The warmth radiates across his entire arm. Akaashi wishes he’d leave his hand there.

He manages to amass a decent collection from their current kitchen contents as Bokuto searches. He likes to cook- he likes the rigidity of it. There’s a set ingredients list, a certain way to prepare, a specific heat setting to cook on to make a specific portion of food. It’s calming, unwavering. As long as he goes by the book, generally all turns out well. He works quickly, spreading butter across bread with a faint whistle as Bokuto waffles on, shouting across the apartment through his open bedroom door despite Akaashi’s lack of response. He knows Akaashi is listening anyway. Akaashi always listens. It doesn’t take long for him to complete what he’s doing- sandwiches with white bread, a small tub of sliced watermelon, some water bottles filled with juice, a packet of the crisps Bokuto likes because they’re shaped like birds, some chopped bell peppers, some of Kuroo’s sweets. It’s not much, but he’s pleased enough with it. Bokuto would be, too. Bokuto was pleased with everything Akaashi did- a fact which lays heavy on his chest if he stops to consider it. 

“Bokuto, do you need help?” He calls, leaning his weight to one side and moving his hair out of his face. He already knows the answer will be yes, but asks out of courtesy anyway. 

“Uh- yes, please!” Is the response. He enters the bedroom, expects to see drawers upturned and the wardrobe’s contents pulled out. He’s pleasantly surprised to only see one emptied drawer. 

  
Bokuto’s room is deceptively plain. The walls remain white, as they do throughout the apartment. The landlord had asked them not to paint, which considering the colours Bokuto likely would’ve come up with, is probably a blessing. The bed is unmade, sheets black and grey in colour. He keeps a plant in the window, but the leaves are browning along the edges under the heat. His desk is a mess, piled high with schoolwork that partially obscures the blinking laptop underneath along with a tipped over pen jar. There’s two team photos on the wall- one from high school, one from his current university team. He looks ecstatic in both. 

“What does it look like, Bokuto?” He asks, looking around before settling his gaze on Bokuto’s form as he sits on the foot of the bed, fanning his shirt against his chest. It’s hypnotic. 

“It’s a yellow backpack. Has a little sunshine on it, some keychains I won in an arcade. Man, I’ll be so pissed if I’ve lost it. I really liked those keychains!”    
  


“I’m sure we’ll find it, Bokuto. I’ve never met someone with so many keychains.” He offers the reassurance as he searches, reaching up to move things on the shelf within the wardrobe. He catches a flash of yellow behind an unpacked cardboard box, pulls it out. As he spins in place to show Bokuto his trophy, he sees two golden eyes follow the hem of his shirt as it rises and falls before they dash up quickly to meet his own eyes. 

“I knew you’d find it! This is literally gonna be so fun. You cool with packing it, and I’ll go downstairs to start the car up and get the A/C going? The thought of sitting in a hot car for the drive is, like, actually too much to cope with right now.” He answers with a simple nod, clutching the backpack to his chest. Bokuto beams, stands and grabs his sunglasses with one smooth motion. He leaves with a whistle, keys jangling as the front door closes behind him. Akaashi gives himself a moment, stares blankly at the air in front of him, thinks back on Bokuto’s lingering gaze. He commits it to memory. 

The drive doesn’t take long, but Bokuto keeps the air conditioning on full anyway with all the windows down. He’d make a comment about how having the windows down defeats the purpose of the air conditioner, but the way Bokuto’s ungelled hair moves in the wind makes it hard to form words at all, so he decides not to. The air outside is thick with pollen, makes his eyes itch behind the lenses of his sunglasses. He reaches a hand up to rub at one slightly before retracting it, instead moving to unclasp his seatbelt as the car comes to a stop. The cooler bag is nestled on the floor of the car between his ankles. Bokuto’s hand brushes against one briskly as he leans across suddenly to hoist the bag up by one of the straps, winding it around his shoulder. It gives Akaashi pause for a second before he stands, opening the door. 

There’s a lake in the middle of the park, which the sun bounces off of and directly into Akaashi’s eyes. Ducks mill about in the centre- usually, they’d be swarming at the edges in search of the stale breadcrumbs that children like to toss at the lake, but the heat seems to have detained them, so they simply float lazily along instead. There’s flower beds all along the paths, petals in full bloom with a vibrancy that makes Akaashi’s eyes strain. Bokuto coos at the range of colours, says something about how nice they are. Akaashi just hums in agreement, watches the way Bokuto shines with simple appreciation for even the smallest things in life. There’s an expanse of grandeur at his disposal, scenery fit for even the most selective of romantics. But he’d rather let his eyes graze over Bokuto’s face than some flowers and foliage any day. 

They sit, after about fifteen minutes of leisurely strolling. They find a spot under a large tree, more shaded than the other areas of grass. The breeze is soft, pleasant as they sit. They didn’t have a blanket, so Bokuto brought some old sports jackets to lay out in lieu of a real one. It feels startlingly romantic, to watch him billow one out on the breeze with a cheerful smile and lay it carefully for Akaashi to position himself across. Where Bokuto sits, their knees are almost touching. Akaashi allows the gap to close, allows his skin to make contact against Bokuto’s. He doesn’t pull away from it, not that Akaashi thought he would. 

After they’ve eaten, sat for a while, grinned at each other for a few seconds too long, they walk back. If their arms graze while they walk, Akaashi simply allows it to happen. He thinks about moving his hand closer, but that’s not a leap he’s willing to make today.

\---

It’s a pleasantly chilly night, late August now, and they’re drinking. Celebrating their ‘final days before the dawning mountain of assignments’ as Kuroo describes it. There’s some of the volleyball team flitting around their apartment, a few friends of Kuroo and Kenma’s from high school, some of Bokuto’s friends. Akaashi only really invited Shimizu from their old flat, who brings Yachi. Set to be a first year starting soon, studying graphic design, works at the same clothing store as Shimizu. She’s short and absolutely terrified, cowering next to Shimizu as she speaks. It’s not big or wild enough to be considered a party, though with the way Oikawa’s getting snippier and laughing louder with every empty glass, leaning further into Iwaizumi as the minutes pass, that could change. It’s comfortable, which is a statement that he shocks himself with. He’s never been someone who’s comfortable at a gathering like this, yet here he is. 

Their apartment is cleared of anything expensive for the occasion. They never really had anything expensive in the first place, but they’ve secured a couple of their plants and moved the rug into Kenma’s locked room. They only just managed to get Bokuto’s wine spill out of it, after all. There’s some old Christmas lights hung up, a few bottles congregated on their kitchen counter alongside two large piles of plastic cups, stacked upside down. There’s an open bottle of cooled wine abandoned, the stopper left discarded on the table. Its contents are half empty, and Akaashi can see the condensation rolling down the side. It looks expensive, so it definitely didn’t start the night in their apartment. He wonders distantly who would’ve brought it. Probably Oikawa. He’s kind of extravagant like that, he supposes. 

He spends a while talking to Shimizu, laughing, asking her where she’s living now. She’s out on her own, he finds out, renting for herself. He’s amazed she can afford it, to which she informs him that, frankly, she can’t. They laugh about it for a second, though it’s nothing to laugh about. Her course in business management went well last semester, is currently going well at her internship placement over the summer. She’s excited to resume. It’s unexpected how satisfying it feels to make familiar small talk with a friend like this, to ask ‘How’s this?’ and get an ‘Oh, fine!’ in response. She’s cool and breezy, Shimizu, and he’s glad to call her a friend. Eventually she moves on, circling back to Yachi and a boy with dark hair and freckles who’s holding hands with a taller, blonde boy. 

He’s a little bit woozy, but he’d hardly call it drunk. He’s had one double vodka and cranberry juice, currently he’s nursing another. The cup is cold in his hand, heavy with liquid that threatens to spill over onto the kitchen tile as he leans to take a sip. Kuroo is absolutely hammered, laughing with tears streaming down his face, an arm wrapped like a vine around Yaku’s shoulders. There’s a small collection of discarded beer bottles at his side, and he’s swinging an unopened one around as he gesticulates while he speaks. Akaashi can see the foam building up through the green tinted glass of the bottle, even from his position in the kitchen. From the nervous look on his face, so can Yaku. 

Kenma’s not one to enjoy gatherings as a rule, but even he seems to be doing okay. He doesn’t drink, but he’s holding a can of something fizzy and chatting to someone Akaashi thinks is named Kai with ease. He even laughs a bit, his hair pulled back into a small ponytail. He’s grown it out a lot since they first met, the dark overtaking the blonde now. He sticks to the kitchen area mostly, rolls his eyes and pretends he’s annoyed at Kuroo’s volume, smiles despite himself. Eventually he migrates to sit next to Kuroo on the sofa with a laugh that’s thinly veiled beneath a grimace. 

Bokuto is at least as drunk as Kuroo, possibly more. Akaashi remembers watching him do shots off a small wooden tray about ten minutes ago, pit against Konoha. It’s amazing he’s still standing, honestly. He’s fiddling with the stereo, kneeled on the floor to mess with the volume. He accidentally trips it too high, filling the apartment with loud noise for a moment before he startles, jostling it back down again. His hair has come out of place from the excitement of the evening, and he looks positively untamed with it. Akaashi finds the rosy hued flush in his cheeks much more charming than he should. He stands, runs his hand through his hair, looks around before his gaze catches on Akaashi across the kitchen counter. Immediately, his face lights up as if he were a lightbulb. 

Akaashi takes a sip, bolsters himself as Bokuto makes his way over. He’s preparing for a collision, preparing so he doesn’t do or say something beyond himself. That’s becoming a real danger as of late, even when he’s stone cold sober. As soon as he’s within reach, Bokuto slings an arm around Akaashi’s shoulder and pulls him inward towards his chest. It’d be smothering, invasive on anyone else, but Akaashi just leans further into the fabric of Bokuto’s shirt. 

“This is so fun!” He exclaims, leaning in so he’s closer to Akaashi’s ear. The music definitely isn’t loud enough to warrant such behaviour. They are in an apartment building, after all. Akaashi goes with the act happily, recites his lines, leans in to match Bokuto. 

  
“Yeah, it is. It’s nice that all our friends get along so well.” He responds, but it seems to fall on deaf ears. Bokuto is just staring at him blankly, grinning. His eyes catch against Akaashi’s cheek, his upper lip. He feels like he’s being dissected under the weight of such a stare. There’s a heat gathering in his own face now, so he takes another sip to mask it. 

  
“Woah, Akaashi! What the fuck is that? It’s so...red!” Bokuto exclaims with wonder, swindles the drink straight out of Akaashi’s hand. He’s giggling now, swilling it around in the plastic cup and leaning in to take a sip himself.

“It’s a vodka cranberry, Bokuto. You made it for me.” 

“Fuck, did I?” He starts laughing immediately, hands the drink back quickly so it doesn’t spill as he shakes. “I really shouldn’t have done those shots, Keiji. I’m totally gonna puke later. I can just tell.” Akaashi sighs, purses his lips slightly and takes yet another sip. Every time Bokuto uses the name ‘Keiji’ it’s like a jolt to the system. 

“That’s okay, Koutarou. I’ll sit with you and pat your back.” He says, much softer than he intends to. Immediately Bokuto seems to sink into him, grinning with affection, his eyes practically sparkling with the overflow of emotion. It’s exactly typical of them to manage to have a moment in the middle of a totally-not-party, he thinks. 

“You take good care of me, Keiji! Wish you could just… fuckin’... take care of me forever, y’know?” He’s drunk, Akaashi knows this, but he sounds so painfully truthful that he can’t help but take it to heart anyway. Bokuto’s swinging an arm as if to gesture along the horizon, gazing off distantly before looking back to stare into Akaashi’s eyes again. 

“Me too, Koutarou. Maybe you should sit, okay?” It’s a moment that comes dangerously close to being a confession of some kind, if Bokuto were sober enough to decipher it. As it is though, he just blinks away some overly fond tears, blubbers incoherently a bit and nods. He settles into a kitchen stool, leaning against the adjacent counter for support, his arm never leaving Akaashi. 

He does get sick later, as predicted, and Akaash makes good on his promise. He just pushes his hair back from his forehead, pats his back and sends him to bed with a glass of water and some painkillers for the morning. He lies awake, thinks of the heat from Bokuto’s forehead under his palm. There’s still a lingering fever in the air as summer drags on, enough to spark an uncomfortable sweat, but his palm feels cold and empty without it. 

\---

There’s a concert, September the second. It’s not a big one, just a local band playing a bar for the night. Entry is about 750 yen, for which he gets a little stamp on the back of his hand as proof of purchase. It’s a teal green in colour and smudges almost immediately, the little bar logo becoming illegible. Kuroo and Bokuto had swept into the gym about an hour prior, just as his shift was finishing. Had handed him a paper flyer over the desk, told him they were going, asked if he’d come. Bringing Bokuto to convince him was a dirty trick on Kuroo’s part, but a devastatingly effective one. 

They’re here mostly because the main guitar player is a member of the university's opposing volleyball team, as he understands it. Semi Eita is the name, and this is some bizarre display of sportsmanship between rivals. It’s warm inside the bar anyhow, lightly packed but not overflowing with people. Enough to form a good crowd, yet it retains the intimate feeling that often gets lost within a sea of bodies. The lights are dimmed, a hearty orange overtone reflecting off the wooden panelled walls. The music from the band is decent, but the drinks are far too expensive for Akaashi to justify, so he orders a plain lemonade and sips it sparingly. He and Kenma are huddled at a table on the outer edges of the room, Kuroo and Bokuto’s jackets and backpacks piled up on an empty chair between them. The aforementioned two are dancing, swinging their arms together in the middle of the wooden dance floor with a small crowd of others surrounding. They’d possibly look strange, if they weren’t smiling and laughing so much. It makes you want to smile and join in on the joke, just observing them. 

Kenma looks mildly uncomfortable with the entire situation, but he’s here because Kuroo had asked him, so he simply remains at the table with Akaashi. It’s too loud to have a conversation and Kenma isn’t one to yell, so they just sit together comfortably without words. He’s getting better, Akaashi thinks. A few months ago he might not have come at all. Maybe in a few more he’ll be at the point of enjoying it, even. He eats more these days, without reminders even. Smiles more. Sleeps more. He feels a strange sort of burgeoning pride swell in his chest as he looks over Kenma’s face, the pieces of hair that have fallen out of their constraints and now hang across his cheeks. He has a hand wrapped around a glass of coke, thumb drawing absent minded circles in the heavy condensation ornamenting the glass. He seems to like the music, head nodding lightly, even if he finds himself uncomfortable amongst the social atmosphere of the bar. 

Akaashi himself isn’t typically one to enjoy bars. He’s doing okay, though. Bokuto catches his eye from where he and Kuroo are swaying together, snickering at their own ridiculousness. Immediately his eyebrows shoot up and down rapidly, a hand reaching out in Akaashi’s direction, bending as if to call him forward. He’s being beckoned forward to join them. He can already see himself twisting an ankle in slow motion, and he doesn’t want to leave Kenma alone, so he just shakes his head and offers a fond smile. Bokuto shrugs at this, sticks his tongue out to blow a raspberry that Akaashi can’t even hear, mouths the words ‘ _ boring!’  _ and keeps dancing. 

He could get up and dance, he knows that no matter what he did he couldn’t look as ridiculous as Bokuto and Kuroo. He knows nobody is judging them. Judgement isn’t what stops him- it’s the thought of being so close, swaying in time with Bokuto. The thought of just how close he could get, the way he could claim the crowd was pushing him, say he thought they were just dancing together and that’s how people were supposed to dance. The opportunity is almost too sweet, too open for mistakes, so he rejects it completely. 

He must be staring, because Kenma is giving him an uncomfortably knowing look. He seems to be saying something with his eyes. Akaashi knows what he’s trying to say- he knows, but he pretends he doesn’t. He just offers a thin smile, turns his head to look at the band up on the stage instead. 

When they amble home at the end of the night, piling into Kuroo’s car with Kenma in the driver’s seat and Kuroo riding shotgun, it’s easy to pretend. Bokuto is laughing, antagonising Kuroo with a comment about his dancing, leaning into Akaashi. He’s warm and pliant through Akaashi’s thin jumper and it’s easy to pretend that he could do more than just pine. The streetlights are flickering over Bokuto’s form, suspending him in brief moments of illumination during which he looks like a photograph. It’s warm, so Akaashi rolls his window down an inch or two. The wind whistling by is drowned out by the increasing volume of Kuroo and Bokuto’s mildly drunken conversation. He feels like he’s in a coming of age movie, like he’s some lovesick teenager in the YA novel section at the back of a book shop. He expects to look in the mirror and see ‘Times Best Seller’ printed across his face in gold leaf. 

Kenma’s apparently omniscient eyes catch his in the rearview mirror, an eyebrow raised by about a centimetre. He can’t pretend he doesn’t know this time. There’s no looking away, nowhere to look. He just gives an expression back that says ‘ _ Yeah. I know.’ _ , which Kenma seems to understand. They have a moment of understanding between them, before Bokuto’s calling his name a little too loud and demanding he settle some argument he and Kuroo have been having. He takes Bokuto’s side. He always does. 

\---

The accusation comes about a week later in early September, on the cool evening just before the semester commences. There’s a carnival sweeping through, one that comes every year to ring in the end of the summer. It’s comfortably warm out, the sunset a saccharine shade of pink blending into orange. He’s never been an overly huge fan of the sweltering, sticky heat that summer brings, but this time he’ll be sad to see it go. There’s a walkway lined with stalls in all manners of colours and patterns that he and Kuroo are currently traipsing through. Little machines that exchange yen for tokens are littered around, though several seem to be out of order. There’s cheap plastic cups and striped paper bags strewn all across the floor, which Akaashi attributes to the fact that every bin so far has been overflowing. There’s several pieces of music playing from several stalls and rides, blending to make a disjointed kind of symphony that is both infuriating and mildly haunting. 

It’s not necessarily intended as an accusation, but it certainly feels like one. 

“I think you’re in love with him, man.” Kuroo says, with all the decorum of someone reading off a shopping list. The statement is incongruous with the tone and it stops Akaashi in his tracks. Kuroo pauses with him, turning to look at Akaashi, look at his wide eyes and slightly agape mouth with amusement.

“I’m in love with who?” He asks, but he can feel it’s a stupid question as soon as he says it. Kuroo scoffs to remind him of this fact.

“Bokuto, obviously. Like, I knew you had feelings for him. But I think you’re actually in love with him. I don’t even know if you realise it, but you are.” 

He stops to consider this, stews in it. Bokuto is here, but he’s run ahead dragging Kenma by the arm. He can see him, leaning over Kenma’s shoulder with an arm resting on him, hooting loudly as Kenma plays whatever stall they’re at with an air of complete nonchalance. There’s an array of large teddy bears in all colours strung along the top of the stall- undoubtedly this is what Bokuto has accosted Kenma to win. He can see from here, the shifting kaleidoscope of lights across Bokuto’s face, the way it makes his bleached hair look prismatic. There’s a ferris wheel in the near distance that spins slowly, lights all along the steel beams that flash every colour along the rainbow. There’s so many lights, so many noises, it all seems too much. He thinks Kuroo is probably right, and it makes him sick. Kuroo observes his face, follows his gaze. He knows he’s right. 

“It’s okay, you know? I think you should tell him. I’m not gonna interfere, it’s for you to decide. But there’s a penny for my thoughts, okay?” He speaks like he’s talking to a frightened animal, offers the answer to a question Akaashi didn’t need to ask. 

“Okay.” He responds. It feels fragmentary, disconnected from his body entirely.

“I’m gonna catch up, try and pry Bo off Kenma before he collapses. You should think about it for a sec, yeah?” He walks backwards for a few beats, offers a sincere grin in Akaashi’s direction with two thumbs up, before he turns and walks with his long stride to where Kenma seems to be winning, if Bokuto’s overpowering whoops are anything to go by. 

He does stop. He stops, and he thinks. Thinks about coffee in the mornings, walking home in the rain, spontaneous picnics, drinking in the evenings, volleyball games that make his legs ache with memory. He’s so deep in it that he doesn’t even notice the approaching form until two strong arms are clasped around his shoulders, swinging him from side to side excitedly before pulling back. The colours seem too bright now that he’s this close, eclipsing across Bokuto’s face as they flash. One minute he’s a vibrant bubblegum pink, the next a deep gold, then an electric blue. The gold in his eyes has been replaced by something iridescent, and it’s too much. He knows Kuroo is undeniably right. He’s holding a teddy in one hand, much smaller than the oversized ones hung up at the top. It’s cheap and gaudy looking, an earthy brown in colour, but Bokuto holds it out to him like it’s made of pure gold. Everything Bokuto touches should be gold, he thinks. If there was ever going to be a human with the midas touch, it would be him. 

“Akaashi! Look what I got you! Well…” He pauses, looks sheepish before returning to his natural state of a shameless smile. “Kenma won it if we’re speaking in technicalities, but it was my game token and I only wanted it for you. Look at its glasses! They look like yours, don’t you think?” He’s speaking so fast, like he’s sped up to fit with his surroundings. Akaashi doesn’t want to look away, but it would be suspicious if he didn’t, so he stops to consider the bear. Bokuto’s not wrong- they do look like his glasses. He reaches out, gently takes it from Bokuto. Smiles. 

“Thank you, Koutarou. That’s really sweet of you. I’d offer to win you something in return, but I’m no good and I used all my tokens up on the spinning ride earlier.” He looks up as he talks, chances another look at that face, and Bokuto is beaming with pride. It’s hard to see beneath the thick sheen of vibrance from the multi-coloured lights, but he looks like he could be blushing. Akaashi won’t ever be able to forget that face, even if he tries as hard as he can. Not that he would ever try. 

“Ah, your thanks is more than enough. I don’t need anything, Keiji! Just happy to see you happy! We should go on the ferris wheel next, okay? Take my hand though, the crowd is getting pretty thick.” He says. It seems like an excuse, really, as the crowd has definitely bulked up but considering their respective heights and Bokuto’s build, their risk of getting lost is minimal. He doesn’t hesitate to grab Bokuto’s palm though, slotting their fingers together with a squeeze and a soft smile. He’s probably staring at Bokuto with a little too much sentiment right now, but he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s just the weight of the lights, the ambiance, the fact that he’s letting Bokuto pull him by his hand. Maybe it’s all of that combined. For once he doesn’t care. He just lets himself sink in the feeling, lets himself feel almost as openly as Bokuto does. 

He’s in love with Bokuto, and that’s a recipe for disaster, and he hates Kuroo for making him notice it, but for now he lets himself laugh it off and holds tighter to the hand in his own. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maslows hierarchy of gay needs be like *realise ur in love at a carnival. go for a picnic. realise ur in love at a carnival*  
> also i have NO REASON AT ALL to make kiyoko and akaashi friends beyond the fact that I MISS HER and also i think they'd be good buds if they ever hung out
> 
> i feel like i should apologise that this chapter is shorter than the first, but tbh i did try and make it longer and it was dragging so it's better the way it is
> 
> as always because i am a beg and a wetwipe pls consider a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed!! i literally tattoo every single comment on my brain. even if its just a keysmash i ALWAYS want to hear it!!!!! 
> 
> hit my hq tumblr up! tadashiyam :-)


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY FOR THE PAUSE IN UPDATES MY LAPTOP BROKE AND I GOT LAZY BUT... IM HERE NOW!!!
> 
> i feel like the time skips make this so weird to read but also .............. its done now so its too late oops  
> yet another song recommendation because theres nothing i love more than shoving my music taste at people- cosmonauts by fiona apple! 
> 
> this chapter starts about 10 months ahead from chapter two! it's july, just after Bokuto's graduated from his third and final year at uni and Akaashi would've just finished his second!

It’s a thought he finds himself repeating often now, but it really feels as though Akaashi’s second year at university passes by with all the warning and subtlety of a morning alarm. Things happen in quick succession, as they often do. One minute they’re drunkenly celebrating the start of a new school semester in August, the next it’s all over, it’s mid-July, and Akaashi’s watching Bokuto and Kuroo graduate. It’s surreal, watching Bokuto accept his degree with a mile long smile and what looks like a few errant tears in his eyes. Akaashi’s dangerously close to tears himself, staring openly as Bokuto nods and shakes hands with the faculty. 

They throw another party after the ceremony, and Akaashi lets himself get just drunk enough to justify the way he holds tight to Bokuto’s side for most of the night. He knows it’s not a drunken fabrication when he remembers Bokuto clinging to him just as tight- he can feel the indents in his skin if he thinks hard enough. 

There’s a few weeks of mild unspoken tension in their apartment, after the graduation. Nothing abrupt or obvious, not divisive, but uncertain. Things feel different, now. Are different. Kenma and Akaashi are still studying- but Kuroo and Bokuto are free. It feels like he’s sat on a minefield, waiting to watch who takes the step and wants to leave first. The thought of Bokuto being the one to leave, moving away, drifting beyond Akaashi’s reach- it feels too much. He depends on Bokuto like he depends on the sun to rise, these days. He likes to think that Bokuto feels a similar degree of attachment- and according to Kuroo, it’s possible Bokuto feels it stronger. That seems like wishful thinking to Akaashi, but he clings to it against all logic nonetheless. 

The metaphorical explosion of Akaashi’s current state of being comes by early August, with a job offer that Kuroo can’t turn down. It’s a junior position at a research lab, on the other side of the city and just within the further reaches of the other end of campus. Decent starter pay, good prospects for promotion. Kuroo’s exemplary achievements at his chemistry degree haven’t gone unnoticed it seems, and Akaashi’s so blindingly proud he feels dizzy with it. Even if it means the potential unravelling of everything he currently clings to, the wave of happiness is so deep it stops him for a moment, overwhelming him in its weight. He’s never cared so much about a group of other people before. The job of course means a move- their lease is nearly up, anyway, Kuroo explains. He doesn’t want to displace Akaashi and Bokuto, but he can’t afford the rent on his own yet. Kenma’s classes are mostly on the other side of campus anyway- it just works out. He speaks with an apology, but Akaashi just smiles and nods and tells him it’s all okay. Because even though he’s not  _ really  _ confident it will be, it won't do to hold it over Kuroo like that. He receives a familiar smile, a warm hug. It might not be okay- but for the first time, he feels inclined to think that, equally, it could also turn out just fine. He’s not alone anymore. - the feeling is freeing beyond anything else.

He isn’t left to stew in his own angst for long- almost as soon as Bokuto hears the news, he’s pouncing. He asks Akaashi to stick with him and find another apartment together, almost sounds like he’s fearful the answer will be no when he speaks the words. The response is instantaneous, electric. Bokuto essentially tackles him with excitement, a sentiment Akaashi finds himself sharing. Things are good for Bokuto, too. He’s building a name for himself, playing for a smaller (though that’s not to say they aren’t formidable on the court) professional team nearby, scouted almost as soon as he graduated. They’re lucky to be in central Tokyo for jobs, it seems. It’s early days, and with a drive like Bokuto’s there’s no telling how high he’ll go. Akaashi feels like all he can do is sit back and watch the stars align, watch Bokuto fly past them all. If the pride he feels for Kuroo is overwhelming, he can’t think of a word strong enough to encompass how he feels for Bokuto.

  
The move happens much faster this time- they’ve found an apartment within 2 weeks and they’re shuffling the last box through the door by mid-August. The sweat that clings to Bokuto’s forehead as he crosses the threshold clutching a box for the last time is burnt into Akaashi’s memory. Not even the lull that comes with the summery haze of August heat can blur the memory in his mind- it’s razor sharp, pin prick focus. Most of his memories of Bokuto are. 

Their new apartment is a lot smaller, though in turn it’s also a lot cheaper now that they’re only paying for two bedrooms. There’s no floor length windows, but they have a small balcony that’s just about wide enough to house a seat and a potted plant or two. It’s cozy- but it’s entirely possible that this newfound homeliness has more to do with the fact that it’s with Bokuto, as opposed to the apartment itself. The hallways are narrower, the kitchen is closer, they can’t afford a full sofa so they have a loveseat. It adds up quickly- the shoulder brushes, the stumbling into chests, the reaching over each other constantly- he basks in it, these opportunities for contact. The proximity to Bokuto at all times is maddening, but he’s so enthralled in it he couldn’t force himself to pull away even if he wanted to. 

He swears that sometimes, Bokuto’s hands linger a few seconds too long on purpose- that he seems to feel it too. 

\---

It might be the closeness, or perhaps Akaashi is just projecting onto things that aren’t there- but he knows, somehow, this isn’t  _ really _ the case. Whatever is happening, it’s not just him. There’s plenty of small changes- minor adjustments as they fall into place together in this new situation. They work out a rota for housework. Akaashi gets the TV with no arguments on Saturdays, Bokuto on Sundays. They have to buy a new coat rack because the previous one was Kuroo’s. They get takeout every other Friday instead of every Friday, now. These little things aren’t what keep Akaashi up at night- what keeps his eyes pinned open is the changes between him and Bokuto. 

They’re unspoken, unacknowledged. Akaashi might even suggest they’re done subconsciously, if he didn’t catch the look that Bokuto gets on his face sometimes, where his eyebrows furrow just a little bit, his lips pucker ever so slightly. The look that suggests he’s doing something, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s okay to do. They’ve been close from day one, but the level of closeness they find themselves submerged in now seems to be breaching the word ‘platonic’ entirely. They hold hands for no reason, lean into each other when they watch TV, cross their ankles under the table when they eat. There’s an invisible understanding in place- the understanding that while there is something, neither of them feels particularly incensed to acknowledge or name it. So it continues, silent. 

\---

It’s late August now, the air outside slowly settling into a cool lukewarm as opposed to the long, hot summer they’ve had thus far. The vast leaves of their outdoor plants are starting to curl in on themselves, browning lightly from the sheer amount of sun exposure (and, honestly, lack of water because Bokuto tends to forget). There’s dishes piled in the sink, a small box of empty soda cans and other assorted recycling stood at attention next to the front door. There’s a radio crooning faintly from their living room, though Akaashi doesn’t really care for the song that’s playing. He watches Bokuto’s lips form the shape of the words from his position under the sink, mumbling the tune faintly. 

Their pipe had burst this morning- heralded by a sharp, metallic squeak and loud cry of surprise from a very wet, very startled Bokuto. Their new landlord had been evasive, said he couldn’t get down to fix it until next week. Of course, ever a source of self confidence and drive, Bokuto had just squared his shoulders with a ‘ _ hrmph!’  _ and pulled up a Youtube video. He’d been under the sink with their (frankly, just pathetically sparse) toolkit for at least an hour, pausing and unpausing the video. If Akaashi weren’t enjoying the view so much he’d get under and sort it out himself. He doesn’t, though- he merely watches the rise and fall of Bokuto’s chest instead. 

“Yo, Keiji, can you pass me the twisty thing?” Bokuto asks, leaning up on his elbows slightly to look at Akaashi. He reaches a long, toned arm out as he speaks with the palm extended. It stops Akaashi’s brain entirely for a second, forces him to take a moment longer than necessary to process the request before retrieving and placing the cold, steel tool into Bokuto’s hand. Their fingers brush- and it is entirely purposeful. 

“A wrench, Koutarou.” He offers dotingly, a half smile occupying his lips. 

“Wrench, shmench. You understood me!” 

“I think I might be the only one, sometimes.” At this, Bokuto laughs warmly. It’s like a wedding bell, Bokuto’s laugh- it resounds in Akaashi’s chest, forces him to stop and appreciate it in full every time. 

“Come on, Keiji! You  _ know _ you’re the only one who actually understands me.” Bokuto remarks, voice straining lightly as he twists something against the protruding pipe under the sink. His ankle has moved while he works, come to rest against Akaashi’s. He can feel the rough fiber of Bokuto’s sock against the skin- it’s pronounced against every other sense with a distinct clarity. There’s a moment of comfortable silence, the soft tones of the radio overtaking conversation yet again, before a triumphant ‘ _ hah!’  _ resounds from under the sink. 

“I think I got it, Keiji! Get under here, come look!” Bokuto calls, shuffling to the side slightly to allow Akaashi what looks like barely enough space to squeeze his torso under. Actually, Akaashi can tell immediately from where he sits outside that it’s definitely  _ not  _ enough space. He doesn’t mention it, just sighs and swivels to slot himself under the sink next to Bokuto anyway. Their shoulders overlap and he’s partially leaning into Bokuto’s chest to make it fit, but he just about manages to make it under. He’s so close he can feel Bokuto’s breath slightly against the side of his neck. He wants to turn his face- wants to turn and lean in. He doesn’t. 

The lighting is terrible and it’s hard to see, but once his eyes adjust he does have to admit that Bokuto seems, for all intents and purposes, to have fixed it. 

  
“Ah, great job, Koutarou. I’ll try the tap now. You might want to get out, though.” He speaks airily, though despite himself he lingers a moment longer. Bokuto has leaned his head aside slightly, the tips of his white hair brushing vaguely against Akaashi’s cheek. He wants to stay under this sink forever, but he can’t. So he just leans back into Bokuto’s chest for a moment, savours the warmth and pushes himself back out again. Bokuto follows shortly, a peach toned glow resting comfortably over his face. Akaashi, logically speaking, wants to chalk it up to being cramped under the sink for so long- but part of him hopes that it’s not just that. It feels stupid, but he hopes.

He leans forward, tries the tap hesitantly, wincing at the soft squeak of metal moving together. It takes a second, but finally the water comes through with a steady trickle. Bokuto whoops loudly at the sight, shooting his arms up in triumph before rising to a stand, wrapping an arm around Akaashi’s side to tug him in victoriously. He’s painfully aware of the positioning- if Bokuto’s arm had just gone to his shoulder, this could easily be written off as a friendly gesture. It sits however just above his waist, curled in securely. It’s scary how safe he feels under that grasp. 

“Fuck yeah! We’re the dream team, Keiji! Man, I should’ve gone into plumbing instead of volleyball, huh?” Akaashi shakes his lightly head at this, laughs, leans into Bokuto’s side as he crosses his arms. 

“Don’t get too excited. It’s your turn to do the dishes.” He quips, snorting at the responding groan from Bokuto. He’s thrown his head back in dismay, face scrunching dramatically as he wails. Akaashi can feel him physically deflate against his side, chest falling inward. The warmth in his chest has become all encompassing, too big to be constrained, has stretched to afflict his whole body. 

“I’ll dry for you while you wash, okay?” He offers, smile furthering minutely at the feeling of Bokuto almost immediately rebounding into his former stature of excitement, the arm around his side tightening with the energy of it. 

They stand shoulder to shoulder as they work, which is neither practical nor particularly comfortable even. Despite this, Akaashi finds himself hard pressed to move away.

\---

The early days of September bring back to back rain, despite the persistently warm temperature smothering Tokyo. It’s unrepentantly heavy, almost constant in its barrage. The few moments of respite the city seems to find from the showers are short lived and often spent dashing from one shelter to the next, jackets pulled up over heads and umbrellas held cautiously at the ready. 

He’s sat behind the desk at the gym, fingers tapping faintly against the mouse for the computer. There’s a fan nestled to the side that’s whirring softly, but nothing can overpower the constant din of rain battering against the tin roof of the gym. Normally Akaashi finds that he likes the rain, finds comfort in it. He doesn’t even mind getting caught in it anymore. But this- he feels like he’s going nuts from the noise alone. The hours tick by off his shift at a snail-like pace. It’s a particularly busy Friday evening, with the rain, but even the bustle of gym-goers checking in and out isn’t enough to hold his attention sufficiently. The lights of the gym don’t quite match up to the lights of the convenience shop, but it’s still too much sterile steel and cool, impersonal blue toned linoleum for anybody to feel comfortable in for long. 

The stagnant energy creeping into Akaashi’s tense shoulders is subdued quickly when the sliding doors open to present Bokuto and Kuroo, laughing together. Kuroo obviously had the foresight to bring an umbrella, but Bokuto has his jacket wrapped tightly around his head, crushing his hair. It prompts an involuntary eye roll on Akaashi’s part- he knows he told Bokuto to remember an umbrella before he left for work today. He’ll have to start leaving post-it notes. As soon as Bokuto has chirped a greeting and bound up to the desk, he’s leaning over to reach a hand out to Akaashi. He accepts it without even thinking, grasps it comfortably in his own. It might not have even registered if not for the shit-eating grin lurking over Kuroo’s features. He’s too embarrassed and stubborn to pull away, though, so he merely holds tighter. 

“Hey, Kuroo.” He greets, offering a curt, polite nod before rounding on Bokuto. “What did I tell you this morning, huh, Koutarou?” He admonishes, voice painfully soft in contrast against the words that he intends as a reprimand. 

“I know, I know! Umbrella! But I just didn’t think when I left, y’know? Ran right past it! I’ve learnt my lesson. Curtains are not a good look for me.” Bokuto rambles, laughing sheepishly and shrugging with one arm as he speaks, the other occupied with tangling further into Akaashi’s long fingers. The jacket has been left to hang over his head, obscuring most of his hair, though Kuroo plucks it off with a snicker. Bokuto whips his head around at this, snips something that makes Kuroo laugh harder. Amongst all this, he doesn’t move the hand in Akaashi’s away even an inch. 

“He’s been whining all evening about his hair, saying how he didn’t want you to see it looking bad when we came here.” Kuroo teases, side-eyeing Akaashi in a way that is far too meaningful for comfort. Bokuto squawks immediately at this, his free hand absentmindedly reaching up to try and press his damp hair into shape. It fails, of course, but that only makes Akaashi’s chest feel fuller.

“Have not! I might’ve complained about that, like, once.” 

“Once? Try a hundred.” Bokuto’s eyes narrow at this, his tongue darting out in Kuroo’s direction. He turns to face Akaashi once again as Kuroo shoots a playful glare back, the hand clutching his swinging lightly. There’s something vaguely reminiscent about the wag of a puppy’s tail in the action, so Akaashi simply lets his hand follow the motion with a small smile. 

“Your hair is fine, Koutarou. It looks good when it’s down anyway.” Akaashi reassures, eyes averted to stare at their hands instead of into Bokuto’s face. The reaction from Bokuto is instantaneous as he chances a glance up- he preens under the compliment shamelessly with a sunny beam, eyes practically sparkling with it as he grins as if he’s the big winner on a game show. He wouldn’t look misplaced among falling confetti and sparklers.

“This is why you’re my best friend, Keiji! You hear that, Kuroo?” 

At this, Kuroo just rolls his eyes and gives Akaashi  _ the look  _ again, digging in his pocket for a second before producing two shiny gym membership cards which he slides over the desk wordlessly. He has to drop Bokuto’s hand to type in the names and ID numbers, eyes skating over blue vinyl to try and smother the disappointment he feels in the loss of contact. Bokuto pouts for a second, staring blankly at the space on the desk where their hands were clasped previously, before seeming to perk up again with a sudden thought as Akaashi checks them in with a quick mechanical ‘ _ beep’  _ of the card scanning system. 

  
“Oh, Keiji! I know you’re working the late shift tonight, so I thought I’d cook pasta or something and I’ll cover you some leftovers so they don’t get cold, okay? Then you don’t have to worry about cooking when you come in!” Bokuto exclaims with an earnest smile, leaning forward on both hands now, palms pressed flat against the light pine of the desk. Kuroo’s raising an eyebrow at this, staring at Akaashi over Bokuto’s shoulder- something which Akaashi pointedly ignores. If he responds to the gesture with words, he knows his voice will betray something he isn’t ready to give. So he merely hands the cards back with a nod and a smile of gratitude, mumbles a thank you and a goodbye, watches Bokuto’s back as he descends into the gym. Kuroo lingers, weight leaning on one leg with his arms crossed. 

“You’re like a couple of newlyweds, you know that?” He proclaims dryly, levelling Akaashi with an aloof stare. 

“I don’t understand your meaning, Kuroo.” He cuts back, a blank expression. Bokuto may have the unnatural talent for stripping back Akaashi’s stony faced defences, but Kuroo isn’t quite so proficient. 

“Yes you do. Please, for the love of God, tell him.” 

With this, Kuroo pauses for a second and gives him a heavy expression. Akaashi just stares back, nods lightly, turns to his desk so he doesn’t have to look at Kuroo’s face as he follows Bokuto. 

\---

It’s mid September now, the 17th, and the semester is in full swing. Between shifts at the gym and mounds of schoolwork, Akaashi finds himself grasping perilously for energy most days. There’s an internship on offer through his university course- it pays terribly and it would mean taking fewer hours at the gym, but it’s at one of the largest publishing companies in Japan. He can’t ignore the way his chest feels tight when he thinks about it, thinks about what that could mean for his future. He’d dropped off his application about three weeks ago, with a brusque nod and a stony expression. He’s scared to hope for things, sometimes, as if the universe will see how badly he wants it and purposely take it away. Turns out this fear is entirely unwarranted, as at exactly 1:30PM that afternoon he’s receiving a phone call to say they’d like to offer him the position. 

He’s not one for unrestrained displays of emotion, but the call certainly brings him close. He’s running from his room as soon as the little ‘ _ click’  _ that signifies the other has hung up sounds, socks sliding against the linoleum with a wild grin on his face, turning sharp into the living room and all but  _ launching  _ himself in the direction of Bokuto with an incoherent babble. He’s sat on the loveseat, has swivelled to give Akaashi a look that conveys both immense confusion and mild excitement about whatever Akaashi’s trying to say anyway. It gives him pause, forces him to stop, breathe, focus on the shining behind Bokuto’s eyes, widens his grin further. There’s nobody else he wants to share this kind of news with, he feels. Nobody in the world. 

“Keiji! Not that I’m complaining about seeing you so animated, but chill out a sec, yeah? What’s up? What happened?” Bokuto questions in a mollifying tone, twisting further to face Akaashi better against the back of the seat. He’s reaching a hand out, holding onto the bicep of Akaashi’s arm. It’s immediately both a comfortable, grounding feeling and a hard reset to Akaashi’s brain. 

“Ah, Koutarou. You won’t believe it. You probably don’t remember, but I applied for an internship a while ago.” At this, Bokuto breaks into a grin immediately and shuffles his body entirely so he’s facing Akaashi over the back of the chair in full. Both hands come up to clutch at Akaashi’s arms now, radiating warmth across his entire torso. 

  
“What? Of course I remember! At that big-ass publisher! Holy shit, did you get it?” Bokuto’s voice frequency is hitting an incline now, increasing with every word that goes by as his fingers grasp tighter. It’s the only thing stopping Akaashi from flying away, he thinks. He lifts his own hands to rest against Bokuto’s arms gently, too. He needs to feel tethered, secure, and Bokuto is the only one capable of evoking such a feeling. 

Akaashi can’t even form the words, so he just nods hurriedly with an unfettered smile. Immediately Bokuto is cheering, lunging at him over the chair. The hands that were around his arms have flung to curl around his neck in a python-esque hug, his own hands crushed against Bokuto’s chest where they’ve been shaken off Bokuto’s arms with the movement. Everything in his system is completely overwritten by the sensation of Bokuto’s face against the side of his neck, the hair on his face, the toned arms grasping around him. The constricting feeling in his chest has nothing to do with the actual tightness of the hug. 

“Oh shit! I knew you would, Keiji, I’m so proud of you! Hey hey! You’re too smart!” Bokuto whoops, voice shaking with exaggerated sing-song tones of excitement. Akaashi worms his hands out to wrap them around Bokuto’s back in return, allows himself to hold tighter (if possible). Before he really knows what’s happening, Bokuto is pushing him back slightly, kissing him square on the forehead and then pulling him back in. There’s silence, for a second. Bokuto tenses for all of a millisecond before it washes over him, his shoulders returning to their previously lax state. Akaashi can feel the shape of two lips burning into his forehead like the laser of a rifle. He never wants to forget the sensation. 

They stand for a moment longer, entwined together like the final pieces of a puzzle. He stands back, eventually, looks Bokuto’s expression up and down. He’s grinning so wide it hurts to look at, face red slightly, eyes burning with intensity. He’s staring directly at Akaashi, too. Bokuto is an expert rambler, but for once, he seems to be without words. 

“Can we celebrate, or something? I don’t want to make a fuss, but some takeout and some celebratory drinks would be nice.” He says, looking aside meekly before flitting his gaze back to gauge Bokuto’s response. It’s immediate, displayed across his entire form as if he’s a blank canvas and each emotion is a stroke of colour. 

“Fuck yeah we can! I’m paying, alright? And don’t argue! I won’t hear it! You look around for a bottle of something fun, I’ll sort through our takeout menu drawer for something good.” Bokuto commands, jumping up to head into the kitchen with quick steps. Akaashi merely nods with a thankful smile, begins to turn to follow him into the kitchen. He stops though, stalls as Bokuto suddenly comes to a standstill and pivots to look Akaashi directly in the eyes for a second more. 

“I’m really, really proud of you Keiji. Like, you’re the best person I know. I’m more proud of you than anyone. I just want you to know, okay? Let’s get this party on!” 

And with that, Bokuto has turned once more to march into their kitchen with new determination. All Akaashi can do is watch his back, stare blankly at the soft strands of hair that need trimming against the nape of his neck. He’s so submerged in the gilded rays that Bokuto emanates at all hours of the day, so hopelessly lost in it- and yet, despite the fact that he  _ is _ lost, he feels profoundly safe. There’s no minotaurs in this labyrinth- just a lot of love that Akaashi doesn’t know what to do with, or how to contain.

Maybe he’d rather chance it on the minotaur. 

\---

Akaashi finds himself shocked with the sheer amount he celebrates, these days. He feels like life has turned on its axis, through absolutely no impact of his own. It’s September the 20th, a cool evening. Bokuto’s birthday. He’s not particularly good at planning parties, but he tries his best for Bokuto, who seems absolutely enthralled with everything about the occasion despite what Akaashi sees as his shortcomings. Their apartment is comfortably full, alight with the soft mumbling of laughter and conversation. There’s golden streamers of thin plastic hung in the doorways, some gleaming confetti stars sprinkled on the tables, a cheap foily banner draped against the emptiest wall available in their living room. It’s an easy, close occasion. The music is kept at a respectable background hum and there’s drinks flowing, though nobody seems to be particularly drunk. There was a cake, previously, but it’s mostly gone now. All that remains is a sadly crumpled leftover slice of chocolate sponge, a few fallen globs of thick frosting and a toppled over yellow candle, the wax hardening against the cake plate. 

Usually at these occasions, Bokuto tends to phase in and out of Akaashi’s orbit. He’s just a sociable person, after all. Tonight though it’s like they’re glued together- Bokuto’s arm has barely dropped to unlink from Akaashi’s for even a second all evening. The looks he gives Akaashi when their eyes catch might be enough to bowl him over entirely if he didn’t have Bokuto on hand as a (particularly hefty) pillar of support. Not even Kuroo’s subtle expressions and double entendre jokes at his expense can reach the buzz he feels. 

People filter in and out of focus steadily as the night goes on, the hours sliding by with a golden shimmer. The longer things go on, the more slurred everyone seems to get. There’s a spilled champagne flute in the kitchen, but Bokuto just laughs at the spill and cheerily drops a towel over it, picking the flute up to give it the once-over. Akaashi doesn’t even remember buying champagne for the occasion- he knows Bokuto hates the bitter taste, after all. Guests sieve out, their small crowd thinning before eventually concluding with Kenma directing a pleasantly hazy Kuroo out. There’s a deep hug between Bokuto and Kuroo, a few slurred affirmations of bro-hood, before Kenma is offering Akaashi a smile and a small wave.  _ Good party _ , he says. Coming from Kenma, it feels like being presented with a gleaming first place medal. 

Bokuto walks Kenma and Kuroo to the elevator, insists upon it despite being a little drunk himself. It’s the first time they’ve separated in the past four hours, Akaashi notes. It’s late, the early hours of the morning, but Akaashi sets about cleaning up what he can anyway. He doesn’t want to deal with the full mess tomorrow. Clears some glasses, sets some plates in their dishwasher. He’s covering over the rejected remains of the cake when Bokuto returns, whistling with a sublime grin on his face, entirely out of tune. 

“Keiji, you don’t hafta clean! It’s late, yknow? Plus, you threw this awesome party, so I’ll clean! S’only fair.” Bokuto chirps, reaching to pick up the now covered porcelain plate before Akaashi has the chance. He wobbles slightly for a second, snorts with laughter, but manages to steady himself sufficiently to slide the plate into their fridge, pushing a few cans and boxes out of the way with a forceful ‘ _ clink’ _ to fit it in. 

  
“You don’t have to clean by yourself, Bokuto. It’ll be faster if we work together.” 

  
“Yeah, but-” Bokuto pauses, spinning to lean his back against the closed fridge door. A plastic magnet falls to the floor with a dull ‘ _ clack’ _ , but neither of them pay it any mind. “- That’s not the point, y’know! Like, you do so much for me, Keiji! I can clean so you don’t have to.” Bokuto reassures, crossing his arms lightly with an open smile. He shuffles his foot at the magnet absentmindedly, sliding it across the floor for a moment before leaving it once again. Akaashi just shakes his head, raises his eyebrows softly with a small smile. 

“I really don’t do that much. You deserve it, anyway.” It’s said without much thought, but Bokuto recoils from the statement with an incensed exclamation of emotion. 

“ _ Whaaat? _ Keiji, you literally do  _ so _ much for me! Like, all the time! You leave me post-its so I don’t forget my umbrellas. You buy the snacks I like when you stop by the shops, even when I don’t ask. You literally just threw me the best party  _ ever!  _ I mean, I remember all these things, y’know? They mean a lot to me.” He’s moved away from the fridge, stepped over the magnet, entered into Akaashi’s space now as he continues to speak.“So, I wanna do more! Let me do more, okay?” 

  
It’s all Akaashi can do to nod, looking directly into Bokuto’s face. His eyes are crinkled with mawkish warmth, fixed on Akaashi’s own. It’s a quick moment, faster than a flash of lightning. He leans in, catches Akaashi with a peck on the lips. It barely even lasts long enough for the sensation to register. But it does- and he expects to be overcome, to faint with the strength of his emotions and flop sadly. He’s not, and he doesn’t. Bokuto smiles with a tranquil look, so Akaashi finds himself inclined to follow. It doesn’t feel like a big shocking conclusion, or the apex of something grander than themselves. It just feels natural, like that’s something that all best friends do- like what else could Bokuto possibly have done? 

He thought Bokuto might have been a little bit blurred with alcohol before, but staring at him now, he seems startlingly sober. The look in his eyes is too clear, too concise, too sure in his own actions. It’s no drunken mistake, and neither of them will pretend it is. It’s a leap forward, yet it doesn’t feel like putting a name to whatever is burgeoning between them, more of a silent acknowledgement. There’s still something stopping him from reaching out fully, grasping onto Bokuto. He can’t explain it, but it’s there. 

They stay up a while longer watching late night TV on their cramped loveseat, legs overlapping and Akaashi curled inward vaguely toward Bokuto. They fall asleep there, eventually. There’s a crick in his neck because of it, but it’s the best he’s slept in a while. 

\---

October brings a sharp drop in Tokyo’s temperature that takes even the most prepared among its citizens off guard. Their fans are packed away swiftly, replaced by an old space heater that makes a noise hauntingly similar to that of a death rattle every time Akaashi switches it on. They sit closer on their seat, now, often huddled under a threadbare blanket that Bokuto affectionately reveals he’s had since he was a kid. It’s not even that cold in their apartment. Akaashi just likes the easy excuse. 

As it is, he’s on his way to his second week at the publishing company. He walks with Bokuto every morning, splinters off eventually to head to the train station while Bokuto in turn heads to the team’s local training arena. The arena is close enough to walk, though the publishing company is further into central Tokyo. He should really just drive, honestly. The morning walks with Bokuto start his day off with a flourish, though, so his car sits neglected in its parking space as usual. 

  
The sharp air scrapes at his face as he walks, claws into the tips of his ears. The scarf he picked up doesn’t provide much use against the cutting wind, but he huddles into it for safety anyway. The cold slows him, ices over the joints of his bones, nudges him into a state not dissimilar to hibernation. It does the opposite for Bokuto- he’s charged by it. There’s a red glow of freshness to his face as he breathes in the icy air, chattering as he walks. Their hands are clasped within Bokuto’s pocket, because Akaashi forgot to pick up his gloves. He and Bokuto both know he never forgets anything, really, but they sit comfortably and play the appropriate parts together within the lie anyway. 

“Oh, Keiji, I was thinking we could do this soup recipe tonight! It’s pretty simple, and so… seasonal!” Bokuto speaks, repressing the urge to increase his pace. Instead he walks (albeit slightly awkwardly) in step with Akaashi so as not to disturb their hands. 

“Whatever you like, Koutarou. I finish earlier than you today, so text me the list of ingredients and I’ll pick up what we don’t have.”

“Wait, you remember what we do and don’t have? That doesn’t even surprise me, actually. You’re too well put together to be real, sometimes. I swear!” 

The comment prompts a fond eye roll from Akaashi, a responding grin of satisfaction echoing in Bokuto’s face. They’re coming upon the turning point now, where Akaashi splits away to catch his train. He doesn’t want to retract his hand and it seems like Bokuto doesn’t want to rescind it, so they simply stand still together on the outskirts of the bustling pavement together. 

“Have a good day, Koutarou.” 

  
“Only if you do!” At this, their hands finally break. Bokuto lingers a second longer, hesitates as his gaze flickers over Akaashi’s face. He looks like he might lean in for a moment, like he’s dangling on the precipice of it. He doesn’t. “I’ll see you at home, Keiji. Looking forward to that soup!” With that, he’s jogging off. 

Akaashi’s hands feel cold for a lot of reasons as he nears the station. 

\---

The final border breaks down quietly, dimly, gently. It’s a Sunday afternoon, the coldest day yet in the freezing snap that has Tokyo captured in an ice cold grip, extending right through to mid-October. The days are shorter, the dark constantly encroaching upon the daylight. It’d bother Akaashi a lot more if he was still alone. Their space heater hums as it works, letting out a faint metallic noise every now and again to punctuate the air within their apartment. The tap is dripping lightly, the sunlight fading into a deep blue hue outside. They’ll need to turn a lamp on soon, but neither feels particularly swayed to move from their spot of warmth. 

They’re huddled together on their sofa, legs crossed together under both Bokuto’s grey striped duvet and old, scraggly blanket. Bokuto had dug out an old card game, demanded Akaashi play immediately. The cards presented to him are slightly faded from being left in the sun, a few bent down the middle or with the paper frayed at the corners. He didn’t fully understand the rules from Bokuto’s flurried explanation, but he finds that he’s happy to just let Bokuto take the victory anyway. The smile of triumph he gets is more than enough to soothe his bruised ego and recoup his losses. 

“Hah! That’s another set for me.” Bokuto cheers, setting another pile of cards across his blanketed lap. There’s three piles on Bokuto’s side now, only one on Akaashi’s. He still doesn’t even understand how he managed to amass the one. 

“You’re very good at this. If I didn’t know you were such an outstanding sportsman I might think you were cheating.” He pokes lightly, wit softened with endearment. Bokuto makes an almost convincingly offended noise at the notion, dramatically raising a clenched fist to his chest. 

“Keiji! You’re just trying to wound me because you’re losing, now! I’d  _ never _ cheat. This skill is all natural.” 

“If you say so.” Akaashi counters, smirking further at the overly pronounced eye roll that overtakes Bokuto’s owlish eyes. He plays another card, knows he’s lost from the quirk at the corner of Bokuto’s mouth. He has a lot of tells, Akaasi’s noticed. He wants to sit and observe them in depth, but he can’t. So he steals away moments of consideration like these, huddles over them and analyses every micro-expression. He finds himself wondering more and more lately why he can’t take the leap and just observe the way he wants. It’s no longer a question of reciprocation, after all.

Bokuto places a card of his own, scoops up another pile with a whistle and a grin. 

“Ah, yes! I win! Suck on that one, Keiji. Maybe there’s something I could beat you in after all, eh?” Bokuto speaks with a laugh, looking over his empire of folded cards for a beat before pushing them together. He gathers Akaashi’s too, slots them tidily into the box. 

“We should’ve set a reward.” Akaashi muses, watching Bokuto’s hands work with rapt focus. There’s a pause, an unspoken interval. Bokuto’s hands still then, place the box down. His gaze catches against those golden eyes as he looks up, and there’s the distinct feeling creeping along the back of his spine that  _ something _ has just changed. Bokuto leans in slowly, as if to give Akaashi a chance to pull away, and Akaashi expects him to stop. Expects it not to go the way he desperately wants it to go. But he doesn’t stop- he just keeps leaning, until he’s kissing Akaashi fully. It’s soft and new, not without urgency but subdued under the careful fear that if pushed too far it might break. It’s extremely clichéd to think, but they really do slot together perfectly, Akaashi notes. It’s not their first kiss, not even their first prolonged one. But it does feel different, inexplicably. Bokuto pulls back, and Akaashi finds himself subconsciously following for a second before he stops himself. 

“There. Reward.” It’s oddly abrupt for Bokuto, who usually speaks with such splendour and vigour. He’s staring deep into Akaashi, pale eyelashes outlining irises that flicker like great lighthouses, staring like he can see right through his skin into his chest. A thought flickers across Bokuto’s frowning features, but this time he takes the plunge. “We’re not just friends, are we Akaashi? Like, we’re not even just best friends.” 

And there it is. Akaashi has spent a lot of time agonising, turning restlessly, considering. He’s endured a lot of snarky jokes from Kuroo, a lot of knowing looks across sticky mahogany tables at bars from Kenma. He’s spent far too long uhming and ahhing. He’s a logical person, Akaashi. A decision maker. He knows his facts, he thinks, and he comes to an informed decision. It seems as though he’s failed to account for one fact, though- Bokuto himself. He’s kind of a wild card. He could laugh with the relief he feels, could cry even. It cascades over him in grand tidal waves, breaks through the dams built up on fear. He totally failed to consider that it would fall down to Bokuto himself- the problem area- to solve this particular tangle in Akaashi’s life. He does laugh, then. He laughs so hard it’s dizzying, heat pooling in his cheeks as he strains to contain the grin. Maybe he should’ve known- Bokuto tends to solve most of his problems. 

“No, Koutarou. I don’t think we are.” 

Bokuto nods coyly, then, laughs a little too. He reaches across their laps over the duvet, picks up Akaashi’s hand in his own. Akaashi’s hands are actually bigger, a fact Bokuto often bemoans. Bokuto wraps his fingers around Akaashi’s securely despite it. 

“I mean, I feel like we’ve kind of been doing something else for a while. But I’m saying it anyway! I wanna be something else, Keiji. With you. Y’know?” 

“I know, Koutarou. I want that, too. I really do.” Bokuto smiles as Akaashi speaks the words- but it’s not his typical helios-driven beam. It’s something much softer around the edges, more reserved. The kind of smile Akaashi thinks only  _ he _ really gets to see, when he actually stops to consider it. It lights up his whole face in a gentle sort of glow, like the demure flicker of candlelight- it’s getting harder to see in the failing sunlight, but Akaashi would be able to see it even in pitch black. He knows the lines of Bokuto’s face so well by now, he could find his way with full confidence. 

“Does this mean we can make Fridays date nights, now? And I can call you my boyfriend?” 

“I think it does.” 

Bokuto leans in again with a smile, deeper this time. A hand curls around Akaashi’s neck, and he melts immediately under the weight. 

There’s no dramatic confessions under moonlight with tears and flying rose petals, but Akaashi doesn’t want rose petals. He doesn’t even want the moonlight, or perhaps a dramatic flare of wind- he just wants Bokuto, nestled in amongst the hum of their heater and the dripping of their kitchen tap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finished this at like 3am i am literally DYING rn yall   
> one more to go baby!!!!!!!!! we'll get there
> 
> u know the drill............if u fancy it, drop a kudos or a comment! keeps my brain oiled and running  
> follow my hq tumblr! tadashiyam


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg its the end..... obligatory song rec is garden song by phoebe bridgers  
> this is both the longest thing ive ever written and the first multi-chap i have ever seen to completion  
> i feel kind of emotional to be saying goodbye!!!! 
> 
> this final chapter starts about year ahead of the end of chapter 3! at this point both Akaashi and Kenma would have graduated too :-)

The changes between him and Bokuto are not groundbreaking. Though really, this was to be expected, he thinks. They were already far too close for purely platonic friendship, so it’s only natural that a relationship would be more of a mild extension to what they had, rather than a grand sweeping shift. They sleep in one bed now- Bokuto’s striped grey and black duvet covers placed on top of Akaashi’s white linen sheets. Akaashi had moved into Bokuto’s room  _ ‘for warmth’  _ sometime in January, though it was less of a defined decision to move and more of a gradual migration across the hallway. Bokuto’s triad of volleyball team photographs sit displayed above their headboard, proud and bursting with light. Next to them, a framed copy of Akaashi’s accepted internship application. There’s a stack of Akaashi’s books on their cheap flat-pack bedside table, several bottles of Bokuto’s hair gel huddled on the dresser, Akaashi’s glasses case hidden in the top drawer. Their things congregate together seamlessly and it all just fits, fits in a way that makes Akaashi wonder how they ever kept apart. 

Akaashi’s graduation is, for the most part, anticlimactic. It’s the culmination of three long years of studying, reading and far too many essays. He came to university. He studied. Then it ended. It feels like it  _ should  _ be some overly grandiose movie finale, with a song, a choreographed dance routine and some credits that flash across the screen in bright, primary colours. Perhaps even with bubbling champagne bottles and some artfully tossed confetti. The reality, however, is more along the lines of a very sweaty ceremony in the middle of smoldering July heat, a very hefty robe and some deeply uncomfortable plastic chairs. He smiles wide enough to split his face in two when he accepts his degree, despite it all. He can see his mother in the crowd, and she’s crying through a proud smile. She’s almost crying as hard as Bokuto even, who’s sitting next to her. He swears he can see her whisper something into Bokuto’s ear at one point- something that makes him flatten his hair down with his palm on instinct. 

He was originally planning to stay at the gym for a while, as a kind of financial safety net in-between graduation and hopefully securing a job in his field. He doesn’t expect to get lucky the way he does, but maybe he just needs to reevaluate his karma over the past few years and start expecting these things after all. The publishing company behind the internship are contacting him about two weeks after his graduation- there’s an opening. It’s not in the literature department, like he wanted, but it’s an editor’s position. They loved his internship work. They want him back. He thinks about spiked white hair, the job offer, long arms entwined with his own across white sheets, a particularly burnt up cooking pan in his old university flat. It really makes him wonder if he must’ve thrown an especially golden coin into a wishing well at some point, or perhaps he accidentally picked a four leaf clover without noticing. Either way, it seems that everything is coming up for Akaashi. He wonders if he even deserves it. Bokuto assures him vehemently that he does, though. And Bokuto never lies, least of all to Akaashi.

By the beginning of August, he’s settled in. He has his own glass topped desk, his own inbox for paperwork, a company ID card clipped to the end of a stiff lanyard that scratches against the sides of his neck. The simple act of scanning his ID across the front desk every morning makes his chest constrict with pride, makes him smile minutely to himself. The pay isn’t incredible, but it’s more than the gym and he’s been assured it’s only a starter salary. His hours are good, at least. Work tends to follow him home, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it. Even enjoys the satisfaction of hard work done well. It’s a colder August, but the publishing office is all shiny glass and smooth, steel surfaces- so he’s not surprised to observe it’s also equipped with a sparkling new heating system that puts the old university library to shame. Their apartment is less adequately heated, but Bokuto essentially functions as a human flame during the evenings anyway. He can see his breath on the particularly arctic mornings- something that should probably incense him to buy a new space heater. It just means he gets to crawl further under the shelter of Bokuto’s arm, though. He ends up deciding against a heater after all. 

It works. It works so,  _ so _ well. The months fall off the calendar without much further event, beyond that. Before he knows it, it’s broaching October again. He finds it’s been the happiest year of his life- a fact which has absolutely everything to do with flickering gold irises and strong, steady arms. 

\---

He’s sitting in a small coffee shop in central Tokyo, waiting for Kuroo, hands tapping lightly with impatience against the oak table in front of him. It’s a crisp Saturday morning, frozen dew hugging the grass outside. The walk from the train station to the shop had been an  _ extremely _ brisk one because of this fact. No amount of layering and scarves could drive out the cold from Akaashi’s core, it seems, because even sitting under the comfortable hum of the coffee shop’s heating system he feels the chill grasping at him. It’s a nice shop, maybe a little bit too expensive for his usual tastes. Kuroo had suggested it. There’s a chalkboard behind the counter, still misted over with the unwiped smudges of yesterday’s special. Rather than regular white lighting there’s a rust-toned glow cast over the shop, caused by the dim, oversized light bulbs hanging from the ceiling over each table. There’s bookshelves lining the walls- thick, foreboding pieces of solid oak and iron. It’s all very upscale and industrial. Akaashi feels slightly out of place amongst it all, with his freshly washed hair and beige knitted jumper. 

Kuroo enters with a bustle, a mumbled apology shot in Akaashi’s direction before he’s walking off again in long, hurried strides to place an order. He sinks down eventually with a white mug in one hand, some kind of flaky pastry placed carefully on a plate in the other. Upon further inspection Akaashi can deduce it to be black coffee and what he thinks is a raspberry puff, thick scarlet jam spilling out of one side. It’s such an ironic thing, to order something so bitter alongside something so sweet. He quirks a lip at his own private joke, settles it before Kuroo even gets the chance to ask. Kuroo’s hair looks perhaps even more dishevelled than usual, his collar rumpled slightly over the thick grey fabric of his coat. It’s nice to see he’d actually invested in one this winter, Akaashi observes. He looks right at home where Akaashi sticks out, with his raven toned spikes and steely grey tones. 

“Someone needs to buy a clock.” He pokes, smiling with a sardonic bite over the brim of his own cup. It’s half empty now, but still hot enough to make Akaashi recoil an inch. He paid way too much for it, so he’ll be damned if he spits any out or finishes too early and has to buy another. 

“Yeah, yeah. We can’t all be mega-functional like you, okay? Sometimes I just need to be a little bit of a disaster.” Kuroo gripes, his sour expression sold out instantly by the amused twist of his mouth. He leans in for a sip of his own rich black coffee, savours it for a second before removing his coat and settling back into his chair. All Akaashi can think about is how his mouth could withstand that kind of heat without even a wince. It’s kind of scary, even.

“How come Kenma couldn’t make it?” He asks instead. 

  
“Recording or something. It’s all kind of beyond me, to be honest. I’m like a grandpa when it comes to Kenma’s Youtube talk. He records a lot more than he used to. He’s getting pretty big these days!” Kuroo speaks with pride, shoulders straightening and face settling into a sunny grin as he continues. “He did tell me to say hi, though.” He pauses, takes another sip. “What about Bo? He’s pretty much attached to you these days.” 

“Some regional sports magazine wanted an interview. This is the only day they could do it, apparently.” Akaashi responds. It’s meant to be said with a grumble, but the gratification creeping into his own voice at the chance to showcase one of Bokuto’s achievements too throws his tone off completely. Kuroo whistles deeply at that, eyebrows raising an inch as his grin softens by a fraction into something warm, buttery. 

“Fuck, another one? He’s really raking in those interviews, huh? Maybe you guys will be able to afford a decent heater this winter.” Kuroo titters lightly as he speaks, leans forward to rest his chin in his palm. The pastry sits untouched, but it distantly reminds Akaashi that he’d forgotten to eat this morning. He takes another sip to distract against the thought. 

“I hope so. I really don’t like the way ours rattles.” He answers with a thin swallow. It’s partially true, at least. He genuinely doesn’t like the rattle, nor the inevitable explosion or house fire that it implies. He does, however, like having an easy reason to basically flatten himself to Bokuto’s side on their sofa every night. He doesn’t arguably  _ need  _ a reason anymore, of course, but it keeps the teasing from Bokuto at a minimum. Not that he even minds the teasing as much as he pretends, that is. Kuroo eyes him for a second before his pupils seemingly latch onto some break in Akaashi’s cool facade, grin curling upwards slightly in the way that tells Akaashi ‘ _ you’re in for it now’, _

“Oh, you  _ hope  _ so? Because that little twinkle in your eye tells me you’re a big liar, Akaashi. Tell me, is Bokuto a good heater at night? Is he-” At this, a sharp kick under the table from Akaashi’s outstretched leg, armoured with thick soled winter boots. The resulting noise from Kuroo is something between a vibrant howl of laughter and a twisted hiss of pain, and the expression looks almost animated as he chokes for a second around his own laugh. He reaches an arm down to cradle against his shin for a moment, grin not dropping even an inch. 

“I do hope so, actually, we just haven’t given up on our old heater yet.” Akaashi pauses for a second, considers his next words. “...and for your information he’s a fantastic heater. That’s irrelevant, of course.” He’s speaking with a completely unintentional smile, one that he can feel yet can’t suppress. He knows Bokuto turns him into a lovesick fool, can feel the heart shaped arrow poking out of his side. He wouldn’t pull that arrow out for the world. Kuroo’s grin softens now, becomes something less humorous and more genuine. He retrieves his hand to the table once more, runs a thumb against the edge of the cool ceramic plate before finally breaking into the pastry, tearing the flaky dough carefully and sliding half over the table on a thin white napkin. He must’ve seen Akaashi eyeing it up. He was always a mother hen, after all. 

“I’m really happy for you two, y’know? Like, I can tell you’re happy. It’s in your voice. Seems you can’t hide all your emotions from the world after all, you soppy bastard.” Kuroo quips, biting into his half of the pastry. Red jam spills over his thumb, down onto the plate. Akaashi follows it with his eyes as he considers. He looks back up at Kuroo in front of him, smiles fully and unabashedly now. Maybe he doesn’t want to hide his emotions in front of the people he loves anymore. 

“I am happy, and- I’m really happy for you guys as well. Proud, too.” He responds, simple and earnest. Kuroo offers a cheerful nod, still chewing. The coffee shop has definitely warmed up, the oversized clock just hitting 11AM with a soft tick. It’s stylised after a train station clock, hung against the wall with brass metal support beams concealed at the sides. He’s focused on following the swift movements of the wire hand when Kuroo snorts lightly to himself, opens his mouth to speak again. 

“So does this mean you and Bo are gonna have to fight over me to be the best man?” He cracks with a snicker, ducking away easily from Akaashi’s responding swat and curling his legs inwards in anticipation of the impending kick. The thwarted efforts at violence only make Kuroo cackle harder, which in turn tugs something loose in Akaashi’s chest until he finds himself smiling along once more. He’d thought about weddings a little, sure. Possibly more than was healthy. They were barely coming up on a year ‘ _ officially’  _ together after all, he wasn’t going to rush things. Bokuto made him feel like he didn’t have to rush- things would just come when they came, if they came at all. He previously might have expected to find anarchy in this unregimented kind of thinking, but instead he finds something more akin to freedom. 

“That’s a little bold of you, Kuroo. Obviously I would choose Kenma.” Akaashi bites, smirking at the answering scoff of indignation. 

The coffee shop is comfortably warm now, soft and thick with the amber haze of laughter between them. He really is happy, and it shows through every movement. He _ lets _ it show, freely and without regulation. 

\---

  
  


October doesn’t feel as miserable as it used to. It’s still a little too icey, gets a little too dark a little too early. It’s hard to wake and hard to get out of bed. This hasn’t changed. But his circumstances certainly have- so even when the sun sets at 6PM and leaves the sky heavy with darkness before he’s even aware the time has passed, he finds himself unburdened by it. He’s just... content. Overflowing with it, even under the looming chill of the approaching winter. Life isn’t perfect, but he’s  _ finally _ truly content. He’s no longer waking up every weekday to study and every weekend to work. When he does wake up, it’s not to laughter behind doors and jokes that he isn’t included in anymore. He wears button ups of soft, white cotton that don’t itch or strain his eyes when he goes to work. When he sleeps at night, it’s always with his legs entangled with Bokuto’s. He, Bokuto, Kuroo and Kenma meet up on the weekends, go for drinks on weekday evenings, host parties with foil gold banners when there’s a birthday. 

Life is good, so,  _ so fucking good. _ He sees white hair and gilded eyes and that broad smile in everything; the sun, the sky, the birds nesting in the tree outside the train station. It’s a testament to how much he thought he knew about himself, only to realise he knew nothing at all. He thought he knew he wasn’t a sap. And yet, here he is, a sap. Waxing poetic about Bokuto and birds. He’s never liked being wrong, but just this once, it doesn’t feel so bad.

\---

It’s a simple list. Meat, bread, milk, cheese, butter, eggs, hand soap for the bathroom (to be specific, the luminous pink sweet smelling kind Bokuto likes), assorted fruit and veg, a bag of rice, some teabags. It’s a simple list, and yet the basket in his hand seems to include almost none of it. Usually he does their weekly shop on his own, but this time Bokuto has tagged along to accompany him. The PA system chirps out a tune, a mumbled announcement that crackles over the old speakers and is mostly incomprehensible. It’s pretty deserted, a muted Friday evening in late October, the weekend before Halloween. There’s something almost indescribably lonesome about the endless isles of food, the faint rhythm of a song Akaashi doesn’t recognise playing from the speakers, the cutting white lighting. It feels almost timeless inside, like a pit stop along the universe. The floor shines, reflecting the overhead lighting and squeaking quietly against the rubber of Bokuto’s shoe as he flits from Akaashi’s side to the shelves and back, reminiscent of a moth against a lamp.

“Koutarou, we still need to get milk.” Akaashi offers as a soft reminder, eyeing up the brightly coloured bottles in Bokuto’s hand. They’re some kind of juice, labelled in shiny plastic with various cartoon fruits.

“Ah, shit!” Bokuto pauses where he stands, looks down to consider the bottles grasped casually in his hand. “You’re right. This is why I can’t do the shop, Keiji. I just pick stuff up! Good thing you came with me, huh?” Bokuto speaks with a resigned hum, smiling at nothing in particular for a second as he places the bottles back on the shelf, turns again to eye the plastic basket in Akaashi’s hand. 

“That looks heavy. I’ll carry it, hand it over! It’ll stop me picking things up, too.”

“You don’t have to. It’s really not heavy at all, although... you probably just want to show off, don’t you?” Akaashi prods, with a soft eye roll and an amused eyebrow raise. Nonetheless he offers the aforementioned basket to be taken, arm outstretched to place the orange plastic handle into Bokuto’s hand. He takes it easily, reaches the other hand out to entwine with Akaashi’s. 

“Obviously! Always gotta show off for you.” He answers, laughing. “There. Now I’m fully locked down. No more grabbing things. Jeez, Keiji. Your hands are like ice!” He states with a mocked shiver, squeezing tighter for a second before rubbing a thumb across Akaashi’s pronounced knuckles, swinging their hands lightly as they walk. It’s funny how even grocery shopping feels like an occasion next to Bokuto. Like there’s something special about the myriad of brightly coloured plastic packages staring at him from the shelves, like everything is a little softer around the edges, as if it’s some kind of romcom movie scene. They stroll easily down the aisles, Akaashi occasionally dropping Bokuto’s hand to retrieve something, placing it into the basket before finding Bokuto’s grip once more and continuing. 

It’s quick, methodical. They breeze through the aisles with efficiency, amassing the contents of Akaashi’s list fairly quickly now that Bokuto has been somewhat restrained. They still end up with some steaks they can’t  _ really _ afford, some cookies and a bag of something Akaashi doesn’t even recognise, but he knows how to pick his battles and it’s still a fairly streamlined shop considering Bokuto’s repertoire of past impulse buys. The supermarket continues to chime around them, the freezers humming as they pass, occasionally a person or two ghosting by them. Bokuto just keeps humming to himself, accepting the items Akaashi produces and placing them in the basket without question.

This easy mechanical rhythm is thrown off course entirely as they come to the magazine and newspaper rack, stationed in the middle of the main aisle. There’s many covers jumping out with crisp grayscale and vibrant print from their plastic containers, though Akaashi’s focus is immediately enraptured by one in particular. Bokuto’s face is staring at him, painted across the glossy cover of a sports magazine, grinning widely next to some teammates. It’s almost automatic, the way he breaks his set path to make a beeline for it, lifting back the plastic flap to grasp inside and pull out a copy. It feels cool, almost unreal in his hands, though it’s unmistakable. Right there, under the neon orange title, next to the barcode and the publication date. There he is. Bokuto is saying something behind him with an inquisitive tone, though it doesn’t register as he gapes at the glossed cover in his hands.

  
“You didn’t tell me you were going to be on the front cover. I thought it was just an interview!” He exclaims, not yet turning away from the stand to face Bokuto and observe his reaction. He’s too occupied with just staring at the sheen of the cover, running his index finger over the smooth, vividly printed paper, following the lines of the words with his eyes. Bokuto’s name is printed just above his face, as is his height and his peak jumping point. 

“Wait, what? I’m on the cover?” Bokuto questions, voice entrenched in surprise. His footsteps are audible, coming up quick behind him, followed by a familiar hand on his shoulder. He turns slightly with Bokuto’s hand, offers the cover for his perusal. There’s a look of wonder as he just stares at it, grasped tightly in Akaashi’s pale fingers. 

  
“You didn’t know you were on the cover?” 

“Holy shit! No! I just thought they were taking pictures for our interview spread thingy, I had no idea we were going on the fucking  _ cover _ ! I thought this was coming out in, like, November, too!” His voice has taken on a lilt of excitement, picking up speed with every word. He’s grabbing the magazine now, taking it from Akaashi’s outstretched hand to stare in awe. There’s an unshakable grin on his face- it makes Akaashi feel like he’s melting with the pure burning happiness of it. He finds himself grinning madly too, wrapping an arm tight around Bokuto’s side in a sort of hug, leaning up to kiss his cheek briefly. 

“This is really amazing, Koutarou. We’ll have to frame it for the living room.” As he speaks, Bokuto places their full basket against the vinyl flooring of the supermarket with a soft ‘ _ clack’ _ , starts to laugh airily as he comes in for a full embrace, the pages of the magazine clasped in his hand still against Akaashi’s back. Before Akaashi is even fully aware of it, he’s being lifted from the ground. He’s not one for public displays like this, but for this occasion, he finds he doesn’t care. He just offers a laugh of his own, tightens his arms around the broad expanse of Bokuto’s shoulders, buries his face in the material of Bokuto’s winter jacket. 

“Fuck, Keiji. This is like, the last piece of everything I wanted, y’know? Like… you, volleyball, getting my face out there. It’s like-” He’s starting to sound a little misty eyed, so Akaashi pats his shoulder lightly and lifts his face once again as a signal to be let back down to the floor. He reaches his hands up to clutch at Bokuto’s face as soon as they’re free, locks eyes with him. The beam on his face is possibly the proudest he’s ever looked. Bokuto takes a moment of pause with a mild sniffle, rubbing sheepishly at his left eye for a second before resting his free hand on Akaashi’s side, promptly opening his mouth to continue. “- like, it’s all just really real right now, suddenly. Can we buy some champagne or something?” At this, Akaashi erupts with a quick laugh. 

“Koutarou, you think champagne is disgusting.” 

“Yeah, but… it’s just what people buy, isn’t it? To celebrate!” 

“We’ll find something you won’t want to spit out instead. I’m so proud of you, Koutarou. You deserve everything you want. More than anyone.” It’s a moment of vulnerability and unabashed emotion for Akaashi, spoken softly with an affable smile. Hei’s starting to feel dangerously close to tears himself, now. 

They exit the supermarket leaning into each other far too much for it to be practical, the magazine still clutched in Bokuto’s grasp, a bottle in the other hand. They end up buying two copies of the magazine. One lies intact on their coffee table, the other with the cover carefully cut away from the body and framed against the dull wall of their living room. It enkindles something deep in Akaashi’s chest every time he gazes over it, shines against the sunlight from the windows during the day or the lamplight during the night. That’s a quality that Bokuto has, even on paper it seems. He’s just constantly shining. Akaashi finds himself content to simply bask in it. 

\---

November comes slow, lethargic. The chill has become somewhat of a regularity now, the balmy warmth of summer a distant memory at most. It’s strange, Akaashi thinks, how people repeat this cycle of re-familiarising and forgetting every year. Every summer he longs for the cold, every winter he longs for the heat. By the time he gets comfortable within one, the other is already coming up again on the horizon. 

There’s a small winter festival near their apartment, splayed out across the local park. Perhaps small is the wrong word- it’s certainly not lacking in people. There’s families huddled across the entire expanse, groups of teenagers, the occasional lone festival go-er. He thinks he even spotted the elderly couple who live below them earlier. There’s no shortage of stalls, though it’s perhaps somewhat more intimate than the larger city festivals. It’s early evening, the sky darkening into a cool purple, though the amber lights emanating from the stalls are more than enough to guide the way. There’s fairy lights strung between them, thick glass bulbs meant for outdoor use. About fifty different kinds of street food sits on offer on either side of him, the low sizzle of countless grills and hot-plates provided as a sustained backing track to the evening. An ice rink stands proud in the centre of it all, casting a blue toned light over the immediate surrounding stalls. It’s warm, buzzing with conversation and laughter- close but not stifling. 

Bokuto’s chattering away to Kuroo between bites of something, tossing the empty stick into a nearby bin, walking in step with Akaashi easily now. They’re a few paces in front of Kuroo and Kenma, though not too far away to chat between them as they meander through the festival. The remaining heat from the paper cup in Akaashi’s hand leeches through the material of his glove, warms through to his icy fingers. It’s a very welcome sensation. 

“So then I was just like,  _ super _ fuckin’ over it, you know?” Bokuto comments, concluding whatever story he was telling with a shrug. Kuroo hums sagely and nods as if he understands completely, though it’s hard to tell if he was actually listening. Kenma doesn’t even pretend, instead neglects to respond at all as his gaze hovers over the passing stalls. Bokuto is undeterred by this, barely even seems to notice. 

“I wonder how long the festival goes on for?” He follows up, mumbling absentmindedly, seeming to think out loud as opposed to actually wanting a response. Kuroo looks at the centre of the festival for a moment, gaze shifting easily between the deep blue of the ice and Bokuto’s face. 

“What  _ I _ wanna know is... are we getting on this rink, or what?” Kuroo snickers as he says it, stalling in place to nod in the direction of the rink. Kenma’s face immediately dips into an expression of pure disgust, a passionate head shake. Kuroo seems like he was expecting that, however, devolving completely into full on laughter at the sight. 

“I don’t mind skating for a bit if you’d like, Kuroo.” Akaashi offers in consolation, sipping at his drink for a second, turning to face Bokuto to gauge a response. He expects to see the wild enthusiasm that Bokuto has for everything- but instead, he’s surprised to find something very close to dread creeping into the outskirts of Bokuto’s expression. 

“Hey hey, I might sit this one out, keep Kenma company and all. You guys have fun, though!” He’s quick to state, eyes flickering between Kuroo, Akaashi and the ice. Kuroo’s having precisely none of it, however. He just presents a lopsided grin, moves to walk ahead, nudges Bokuto’s side as he passes. 

“Nah. Me and Kenma can just find something else. Akaashi wants to, though, so you should go. Have fun!” With that, he’s ensnaring Kenma’s elbow with his own and briskly walking off, head disappearing amongst the crowd under the haze of the encroaching darkness. It’s an obvious setup, one that makes Akaashi huff lightly with muted laughter. Bokuto seems to hesitate for a second, looking at his retreating back with a mild panic. 

“I’m not particularly fussed on skating, Koutarou. I’m not going to force you.” He soothes with an amused tone, gripping tighter around his cup. “I need to finish my coffee anyway.” It’s empty at this point, though Bokuto doesn’t need to know that. It’s an easy excuse, a simple doorway out.

“Of course! Coffee. Right. Oh well! We’ll find something else.” They fall into step again at this, Bokuto’s arm coming to link with Akaashi’s. 

“Why are you nervous anyway? You’re an athlete.” 

“I’m not nervous! Or, well. Yeah, I am. But don’t judge, okay! I just don’t like the idea of sliding around on skates. Wouldn’t you be sad if I fell and messed up this face, anyway?” He deflects, humour lacing his tone as he bats his eyelashes vigorously in Akaashi’s direction. He hums for a second, takes in the expanse of Bokuto’s face. He’s so familiar with it at this point it’s practically etched into his memory, but he’d never pass up a chance to take a languid gaze nonetheless. 

“Nah.” 

“Keiji!” Is the response, shaking with laughter and accompanied by a mild shove to the shoulder. He’s grinning, snickering along with Bokuto as he clings to his arm so as not to fall. 

Later, the hum of the festival is audible all the way from their apartment, even with the windows all shut. He sleeps deeply despite it, under the safety of Bokuto’s arm.

\---

Akaashi’s birthday rings around quickly, December the 5th. It takes him off guard just how easily the days slide by, as if they were butter in a hot pan. He’s not one for birthday celebrations, doesn’t like the attention of it all. It had taken weeks of shooting down party plans until this point, but Bokuto had eventually conceded and sworn against anything that could be construed as a surprise party. He can’t quite fight off the resurgence of the birthday banner from Bokuto’s own party, a cake and a visit from Kenma and Kuroo, but he knows well enough when to just back down and allow Bokuto to have his compromise. He’s quietly pleased to have this smaller celebration anyway, even if he pretends to fight Bokuto on it at first. 

The gold banner hangs flat against the framed magazine cover, glinting off the light of the overhead lamp. It’s late evening now, the sky outside almost pitch black with the heavy winter darkness that seems to loom at all hours. There’s a small cake sat on the coffee table- vanilla sponge, with a thin layer of striking red jam cementing the two layers together. There’s delicate little candles placed carefully on the top, encased in plastic holders to prevent the wax scalding the icing. The flames flicker in front of Akaashi’s face lightly, reflect in his pupils. He leans in, blows them all out with a quick, sharp exhale. A small round of clapping, as well as a cheer from Kuroo and the flash of a camera. He would’ve been embarrassed this time last year, but now he simply smiles. 

“Cheers!” Kuroo whistles, grinning to himself before leaning back to down the remainders of his glass in one. Kenma simply rolls his eyes with a small smile, leans in to take a swig of his lemonade too. Bokuto is moving in on the cake as soon as he sets the camera down, plucking the candles out in a rapid motion, sharp knife catching the light as he cuts into it with a steady hand. There’s a small stack of plates at the side, readied for serving. Immediately he’s placing a large brick of cake onto one, icing smearing against the ceramic as it makes contact with the plate. Kuroo takes it enthusiastically, sinking further into his chair as soon as the plate is held securely in his hand. 

“A small slice for me.” Kenma interjects, staring down Kuroo’s plate with a raised eyebrow and a small grimace. Bokuto nods, cuts off a considerable slice anyway, hands it to Kenma without paying any mind to the ensuing noise of dismay. Kenma’s not in the mood to argue it seems, because he simply accepts the plate with a grumpy huff after minimal protest. 

“I’ve never seen someone complain about cake in my life except you, Kozume. You little weirdo.” Kuroo sniggers, pointing at Kenma with his fork. Despite the size of his slice, it’s gone remarkably quick. Kenma pulls a face in response, narrows his eyebrows for a second and scrunches his nose. Before Kuroo can even protest or move away from the action, half of Kenma’s slice is being transferred onto his freshly emptied plate. 

“That’s because I don’t inhale food the way you and Bokuto do.” At this, Bokuto pipes up with a noise of indignation as he scrapes against his own plate with his fork.

“Hey! I’m an athlete. I can’t help it!” He objects, swallowing the last piece of his slice. Akaashi just smiles at the exchange, picks briefly at the remainders of his sponge before setting it down. He pours himself another glass, tunes out of the miniature argument for a second to just relax in his own contentment. He sips absentmindedly, eyes fluttering among the three in front of him before sharpening to attention as a hand waves in front of his face. 

“Keiji! You in there? Present time!” Bokuto is chirping, standing up to shuffle in the gym bag haphazardly dumped next to the front door for a moment, shortly returning with a present in hand. It’s about A5, wrapped in silver paper patterned with stars. It glimmers as he moves,leans and tosses it over to Akaashi, shines as if it’s iridescent as it lands in Akaashi’s lap. Kuroo is soon following up with a gift of his own, larger and flatter in comparison to Bokuto’s. It’s wrapped in purple, this time, patterned with the phrase ‘ _ happy birthday, grandpa!’ _ in a cheery font. A label placed in the corner declares that it’s from both Kenma and Kuroo. He frowns at it for a moment, glancing between Kuroo, Kenma and Bokuto’s faces with a gaze of confusion. 

“I told you all I didn’t want anything.” He states, to which Kuroo just rolls his eyes and Bokuto shakes his head determinedly. 

“As if I’m not gonna get you anything, Keiji. Just open ‘em!” Bokuto encourages, leaning forward slightly as if he’s waiting for the big reveal.

There’s no point fighting it now or being stubborn for no reason, he decides. He goes for Kuroo and Kenma’s gift first, tears at the novelty paper neatly. He’s touched, really. It’s embarrassing how enthusiastic he feels to open them, how soft it makes his chest feel. He tries not to let it show, but he’s not so good at that these days. He’s sure it’s abundantly obvious despite his efforts just based on Kuroo’s grin alone. The paper comes away to reveal a photo frame, a fancy one. A picture from his first year is encased inside- from the first (and last) big party he went to. Bokuto’s arms wrapped drunkenly around his shoulders, his eyes wide as he beams shamelessly into the camera. He himself looks mildly out of place, awkward, shoulders tensed with an anxious smile. There’s a clearly visible flush to his face on camera, one that makes him want to snort with laughter at himself. The gift brings a warm smile to his face, tightens his throat.

“It’s not much, but we figured you’d like it. Kuroo’s idea. I picked the photo, though.” Kenma is offering, a mildly abashed tone to his voice as he waits for a response. Kuroo is just wagging his eyebrows, looking between the frame and Akaashi’s face.

“I love it, Kenma. Thank you both. Really. It’s perfect.” He reassures with an easy beam, positions the frame upright on the coffee table. Before he even gets a chance to stare at it further, Bokuto is bouncing lightly, swinging from side to side. 

“Keiji, open mine! C’mon!” He urges. The silver paper struggles against the tearing motion for a second, however it quickly gives way with the unpleasant hiss of paper ripping. It takes him a second to register what he’s holding, and as soon as he does he feels like he might faint with the pure force of the affection overriding his system. It’s a book- Akaashi’s favourite book. An elusive, swanky limited edition that went out of print years ago. The cover is solid to the touch, pristine condition. Everything about the book exudes expense. It’s something he never would’ve asked for, yet it’s the perfect gift. He wouldn’t have had to ask, though, because Bokuto just  _ knows _ him. Knows him better than anyone else ever has, likely ever will. He knows every single corner of Akaashi’s soul, and that’s a terrifying thought. It’s possibly the most terrifying thought of all. He’s glad he doesn’t have to face it alone. He’s struggling for words, choking up a little bit. Bokuto’s influence has turned him into someone far too saturated with sentimentality, it seems. 

“Koutarou. This must have been really expensive.” Is all he can offer, watery voice wavering slightly. 

“Yeah, but, you’re worth the expense! I saved for it months ago, anyway.” Bokuto counters, leaning in to catch Akaashi in a hug. He returns it with fervour, placing the book gently against the table before curling his face into Bokuto’s neck. He reluctantly pulls away after a beat, ever-aware of Kenma and Kuroo’s presence in the room. 

As soon as the gathering concludes, he’s latched onto Bokuto’s side with honeyed words and more than a few errant kisses. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. 

\--- 

He wakes with a start amongst the frosty chill of early February to a jostle at his shoulder, consciousness fizzling for a moment before clearing like dirt settles at the bottom of a lake. Everything is blurry, though before he can fan out a hand to look for his glasses, they’re being pressed into his palm, directed towards his face. Bokuto’s hand lingers at the exchange, slides down slightly to grasp around Akaashi’s wrist. It finally registers that there’s laughter- Bokuto’s unmistakable wheeze. 

“What? Koutarou. What’s happening?” He mumbles, rubbing at an eye behind the lens of his glasses before opening it to clear the forming static, scanning the room for a brief moment and eventually settling his gaze on Bokuto’s shaking form. He shuffles to an upright sitting position as he observes. Bokuto’s lying down still, grin half concealed in the fabric of their pillows as he stares Akaashi down. 

“You just said something really funny in your sleep. Like, something about Oikawa and hair clippers? You sounded really serious, which is why it was so funny!” He answers, snorting and devolving briefly into another fit of laughter. He swings Akaashi’s wrist lightly through the air, absentmindedly. 

“Ah. I think I was threatening to bald him.” At this, a further wheeze from Bokuto that evokes an echoing smile from Akaashi. “What time is it?” 

  
“11:30. We slept in late, huh? I only woke up myself like.. Ten-ish? Yeah, about ten minutes ago.”

“I hate waking up late.” Akaashi complains, sinking from his sitting position to lie next to Bokuto, interlocking their hands properly. He’s smiling even as he complains, shuffling forward an inch to lean further into Bokuto’s space. 

“I know. It’s probably ‘cus we stayed up for that movie, so it’s our own fault. Ah well, doesn’t matter! We deserve it. Especially you. They’re really working you at that office lately! I worry about you.” Bokuto offers, leaning in to match Akaashi. Their foreheads are almost touching, but not quite, and there’s a light squeeze at his hand under the sheets. He just shakes his head the best he can against the pillow, smiles consolingly at Bokuto’s furrowed brow. 

“It’s fine, Koutarou. I choose to work that hard. I’m used to hard work anyway. I put up with you, don’t I?” The responding laugh rings like a bell, melodic and comforting. 

It’s like something slots into place for a second. Bokuto’s sing-song laughter, the way his hair curls when it’s down, eyelashes soft with the groggy haze of the morning. The grey curtains are open by about an inch, projecting a long, sharp stripe of late morning sunlight directly across the structure of Bokuto’s face. It catches in his pale eyelashes, his eyebrows, the black roots of his hair that seem to grow in more by the day. There’s a very slight scar right next to his left eyebrow, pale in colour and barely visible. From last summer, when he’d been hit in the face particularly hard with a volleyball and it had somehow broken skin. The corner of his mouth creases when he smiles hard enough, as do the edges of his eyes. He really is something straight out of an Apollonian myth, Akaashi thinks to himself. The decision is possibly the easiest he’s ever had to make. There’s a moment of silence, a comfortable lull. Then he speaks. 

  
“Koutarou. Marry me.” He says, gentle and overflowing with warmth. He  _ says _ , not asks, because it’s less of a request and more of a simple statement. Bokuto isn’t one for silence, but he’s deadly quiet now. Staring, mouth open slightly, eyes wide with irises shining as if they were gold wedding bands. Akaashi feels like he should be panicking at the lack of response, should be scrambling for an excuse or an apology or  _ something _ . But he just smiles wider, shuffles his arms to let go of Bokuto’s hand (which seems to have gone lax with the shock) and enclose themselves around the back of Bokuto’s neck under their sheets. He’s not scared, for once. He knows he’s made the right choice. It’s possible Akaashi has never felt so secure in his own decision making in his life. 

“I don’t have a ring, of course. We’d have to get one. And this isn’t even really a proposal, I guess? I’m just saying it. I’ll propose properly if you like, in public. We can get rose petals and a waiter with a violin- I know you’re kind of a show off like that. It’s probably a little early for an official proposal anyway. But for now, I’m just saying it. Just me and you. Marry me someday.” 

“What, really?” Bokuto asks, expression still rendered blank with alarm. His tone is precariously balanced between caution and disbelief, but it’s not necessarily negative. 

“What are you talking about? Don’t be silly. Of course really. I’m quite in love with you, just in case you haven’t noticed, Koutarou.” 

And at this, the shock breaks. Bokuto just settles into a grin, the softest Akaashi’s ever seen. His eyes are practically overflowing with tenderness, his head sinking into the pillow as his shoulders de-tense. His face has taken on a comfortable red undertone, and he’s leaning to press his forehead against Akaashi’s properly now. 

“Well that’s good to know, because as it turns out, I’m pretty in love with you too, Keiji! The answer is yes, obviously! Like, come on now. You didn’t even ask because you already knew the answer. It’s always gonna be yes!” 

“That’s good, then.” Akaashi hums, mouth splitting in a smile. The frame of his glasses is pressing into the bridge of Bokuto’s nose, but he seems to be unbothered by it. Akaashi’s in no rush to move, so if Bokuto doesn’t take issue with it, neither will he. 

“It’s good for  _ you _ ! After all, I’m a hot piece, Keiji! I’m gonna be, like, your trophy husband or something.” 

“I guess I should consider myself pretty lucky.” 

“You sure should.” 

There’s birds chirping now, a small family nesting near their window. The hum of the road outside drapes across the air comfortably, provides a constant hum to the back of their conversation. It’s still cold, but spring seems nearer every day. The tap is still dripping down the hall, same as it has since the day Bokuto had to fix their burst pipe. 

He feels like the luckiest man on the planet, to be lying there at 11:30AM, staring at the smile lines on Bokuto’s face. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have LOVED writing this (it's like my baby!) and i can only hope youve all enjoyed reading it too! I definitely plan to write more in the future, though for who I have absolutely no idea hahaha
> 
> thank you so much for reading, commenting, kudos-ing!!! it means so much to me, every single one!! 
> 
> i hope you all have a great day/night/morning :-) and follow my tumblr ;-) tadashiyam  
> see u in the next fic!!!


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